Proof of Heaven
by Pamena
Summary: A world in which Lucy never took the poison, Johanna is no one’s ward, and Sweeney Todd comes home to a normal family. Sweenett.
1. Lucy, I've Come Home Again

Disclaimer - I own two pairs of boots reminiscent of Mrs. Lovett's in By The Sea, but that's about it.

Author's Note - So just to be clear, in this alternate universe the judge never had his way with Lucy, and she never took the poison. Lucy and Johanna are living above Mrs. Lovett's pie shop, just as before Benjamin Barker was shipped off. I've had this idea for several months, and I've been slowly piecing it together with the help of Robynne, who is amazing and I couldn't have done it without her. Seriously, we brainstormed SO much and she helped me more times than I could possibly count. She's a supergenius. Go read her stuff! Thanks to DojoGhost as well, for assisting me in overcoming the intimidating, ever-mocking cursor with her helpful advice:D Oh, also, take a look at my bio page. Bloody Pumpkinhead drew a scene from The Shadow Proves The Sunshine, and it's completely awesome. So look at it, comment about her amazing ability, I'm sure she'd appreciate it!

Summary - A world in which Lucy never took the poison, Johanna is no one's ward, and Sweeney Todd comes home to a normal family. Sweenett.

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_Proof of Heaven_

Dawdling.

If there's one thing she cannot stand, it's dawdling. When she wants to do something, she does it. When she needs something done, she gets it done. She simply cannot tolerate sitting around idly. Everything Eleanor Lovett does has a purpose.

The work day is nearly finished, all the pies have been sold, the tables wiped down and the spilled flour mopped up. The only thing keeping Nellie from collapsing into a chair and propping her feet up for the remainder of the evening is a couple and their two misbehaving children. The man and his wife are smiling at each other over the table, talking in low whispers and seemingly oblivious to the little boy scraping his fork repeatedly over his plate with a loud screech and humming some abominable song, or the young girl who jumps up and down in her seat, hands over her ears, shouting at the top of her lungs that she wants her dolly.

Twilight has broken out over London's gloomy streets, bathing every decaying building and cobbled street in a strange, ethereal glow. Only minutes ago, the rest of her customers had paid for their food and drink before setting out for their homes. Most of them are probably warm and content by their comfortable firesides by now, and yet, this family continues to linger over their empty dinner plates.

Watching them from behind the counter, Eleanor sighs and pastes on a smile. "Need anythin' else, dears?" She asks sweetly.

The man blinks, as though startled to find that he isn't very much alone with his wife, but at a table in a pie shop. He turns to look at Eleanor. "No thank you, Mrs. Lovett," he smiles. "We're just fine."

She frowns as he returns his attention to his wife, settling her hands on her hips as their children continue to shout, scrape and otherwise make a nuisance of themselves. Huffing a little out of exasperation, Nellie turns on her heel and disappears into the kitchen. Over the clatter of clean dishes being put away, she hisses, "Bleedin' 'ell, can't they go _'ome _and ogle each other?"

Johanna whirls around, balancing an armful of plates as she stands on a rickety wooden stool to reach the cabinets. She smiles patiently at Eleanor and returns to her task. "I think they're sweet. Besides, I heard they've been having a bit of marital trouble lately. Don't be so hard on them, Auntie Nell."

Nellie scowls. "You been listenin' to all that rubbish 'ave ya? What 'ave I told you about those gossip mongers I call customers, eh?"

The girl sighs and repeats dutifully, "Don't believe anything anyone says over a glass of port."

Nodding once in satisfaction, Eleanor takes up a damp rag to busy herself with wiping down the counters. "That's quite right. No one means anythin' they say when they're full of ale and 'ot food. Don't forget that."

"How could I?" Johanna asks, laughing. "You say it so often."

Ignoring her, Eleanor glances over her shoulder at the kitchen door. "They've 'ad their dinner, all the other customers are gone...You'd think they'd take a bloody 'int!" She gestures widely with the limp rag, flinging droplets of water all over the place. "The shop is deserted!" She grumbles to herself under her breath, scrubbing furiously at a particularly stubborn spot. "Me poor bones is ready to drop, an' it's 'alf an hour before closin' time - which means they should go fawn over each other in the comfort of their own 'ome and take their wretched children with them."

Biting her lip to keep from laughing out loud, because being amused will only encourage the baker in her rant, Johanna slides the last of the plates noisily into the cabinet. Hopping from her perch, she smooths down her apron and fixes her aunt with a look of fond indulgence. "Would you like for me to tell them we're closing early?"

"Course not," Nellie frowns, turning to her. "That would be rude."

Johanna can't seem to hold back her laughter any longer, and she covers her mouth with a slim white hand as she does so. "Oh, and gossiping about them behind their backs isn't?"

Eleanor offers the blonde a cheeky grin. "What they don't know won't 'urt 'em, love."

Shaking her head and leaning against the counter, Johanna watches Nellie's persistent scrubbing disinterestedly. "Today was good, at least. A lot of customers - more than last month." She sighs tiredly. "I've feel as if I've been serving pies and ale for half my life. My poor back is positively throbbing!"

Snorting, Eleanor tosses the dish rag into a nearby bucket of soapy water and wipes her hands on her skirts. "Oi, wait till you get older, dearie. It only gets worse; my poor knees ain't what they used to be." She moves toward the door, hoping to spot her customers readying themselves to leave. "Oh well. I sup'ose that's the bright side in only bein' able to afford meat for a couple days out 'o the month - you don't 'ave to work nearly as often."

Peering out into the pie shop, Eleanor spies her customers preparing to go home. The man helps his wife into her coat and they depart, their obnoxious children in tow. "About bloody time," she huffs, scuttling quickly over to the door and locking it behind them before anyone else can barge in. Turning the sign to closed, she leans against the door with a heavy sigh, puffing a stray curl away from her face in the process.

Johanna makes her way over to the table, gathering the coins in her hand and counting them out with a furrowed brow. "One and six!" She exclaims, gaping at the money in her open palm. "What rubbish."

Outraged and fully knowing the tip should have been much more generous considering all the times she'd topped of their ale or asked if they needed anything, Nellie whirls around to peer out the shop door. She wonders if she might be able to catch the miserly couple halfway down the street and give them what for. Fuming, she spits out, "Oh, that odious little family! Next time they come in 'ere, I'll toss 'em out on their soddin' 'eads. You just watch!" She glares out into the street, unable to spot them. "Of all the bleedin' - "

"Eleanor," comes a soft, sharp voice from the parlor down the hall. "Please watch your language in front of my daughter."

Just because she isn't visible to the other woman from her spot by the door, Nellie makes a very impolite face and drops into a mock curtsy, as if bowing to the queen herself. "Of course, Lucy, dear." By the window, Johanna turns away, her face red as she tries desperately to muffle her laughter into the cloth of a curtain. Pleased with her reaction, Nellie watches with a smirk as Johanna straightens her shoulders and bites her lip, trying to compose herself.

"Really, Auntie Nell," Johanna chides quietly, but Eleanor waves her away and takes the money from her.

Moving behind the counter to collect the rest of the money so they can begin counting their spoils for the day, Eleanor gestures broadly to a table near the window. "Might as well 'ave a seat. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can - "

"Help me with my knitting?" Johanna reminds her gently. "You promised, remember?"

Nellie deflates, her expression somehow becoming even more weary. "Of course, my love. 'ow could I forget?"

"Because you hate it," Johanna laughs knowingly. "And because you can't seem to complete knitting anything - whether it be a pair of socks or a scarf."

Carrying the tin stuffed with money to the little table by the window, Eleanor glares at her. "Just because you're so much better at a silly thing like knittin' is no reason to gloat. Knittin' is 'ardly as useful as bakin', I'll 'ave you know. Without bakin', you'd 'ave nothin' to eat." She smiles knowingly. "But without knittin' - "

"You would have cold feet," Johanna interrupts, leveling Nellie with a smug grin.

Eleanor frowns. "Never 'eard of anyone dyin' of a case o' cold feet, love. Case of the sniffles, per'aps."

Before Johanna can reply, their friendly debate is interrupted by a faint, almost hesitant knock on the door. Both women turn their heads to stare, befuddlement plain on their faces. A knock on the door after sundown is rarely ever a good sign - it either means they're about to be annoyed by a bothersome tax collector or murdered. The two women stare at the door for several seconds, unmoving. Finally, Johanna says, "Did you turn the sign over?"

The baker nods, not taking her eyes away from the locked pie shop door. "Course I did."

"Perhaps they can't read," Johanna suggests with a smile.

Eleanor laughs. "Well I s'pose I'm goin' to 'ave to read it for 'em." In her sweetest voice, she calls out, "Sorry, we're closed! Come back tomorrow and there'll be a nice pie in it for ya!" She turns back to the table and Johanna, thinking the matter entirely dealt with but she scarcely removes the lid on the tin of money before the knock comes again, this time louder and more insistent, as though the knocker will not be deterred so easily.

Johanna's amused eyes flicker to Eleanor as the baker lets out a frustrated growl. "Perhaps they're deaf as well."

Clearly not amused, Eleanor jumps from her seat, allowing her chair to teeter on two legs for several moments before crashing back into its rightful place. "If it's the beadle come with more talk about taxes, I swear I'll lop 'is fat 'ead off with my cleaver." Johanna stifles a giggle into her hand even as her Lucy clears her throat in disapproval from the parlor.

Brushing off her skirts and striding angrily toward the door, Eleanor grasps the doorknob and yanks hard, glaring out at the stranger standing on her doorstep. "Look 'ere you, I said we're bloody - " She stops and inhales sharply as her eyes adjust to the dim street lights outside, her eyes focusing on the slender man with broad shoulders looming over her in a worn leather jacket.

She feels as though the world has narrowed drastically in the few seconds it has taken for her to open the door and recognize the pale figure for who he is. Dark hair with an odd shock of white, pale face, furrowed brow. She registers all of it, but for some reason, Eleanor can't bring herself to look away from his eyes. The gaze is harder, somehow, but the eyes themselves are still very much the same. A deep brown, the color of chocolate and at one time, nearly as sweet. She remembers another lifetime ago, when she used to stare into them when he came down for a pie, hoping to God that one day he would look into hers and see something stronger than friendship harbored there.

A hand flutters to her chest in shock, and she's very much aware that her mouth must be hanging open, but she can't bring herself to move because Benjamin Barker is standing right in front of her, just as alive as she is. They stare at each other silently, each sizing up the other with a quiet scrutiny. Though his complexion resembles more of a deathly pallor than the healthy glow she'd always likened to that of a Greek god, and his mouth, once curved into a some sort of secretive grin, now seems to be more accustomed to frowning than anything, it hardly matters a wit to her.

Whatever he has seen, whatever evils have befallen him, it doesn't matter. He's still the most handsome man Eleanor has ever laid eyes on. Heart pounding in her ears and the blood rushing to her cheeks as they regard each other, Eleanor finally realizes she isn't breathing and she draws in a deep, shuddering breath, gasping as if coming up for air after a long spell under the sea.

"Auntie Nell?" calls a soft voice. Nellie glances quickly back inside the shop, her face white. "Is everything alright?"

Eleanor slowly turns her bewildered gaze back to the man standing outside, silent as the grave. "I-I'm fine, love. Everythin' is just smashing." Practically gaping at the ravaged remains of Mr. Barker, she opens the door a little wider and steps aside. "Well...No sense hoverin' in my doorway. Come in, then."

He takes a tentative step inside, glancing around the dim interior curiously. Nellie suddenly feels terribly self-conscious as she glances around the shop and notices the dough splattered rolling pin still lying on the counter, the yellowing curtains that must have been a cheery white the last time he was here and she dreads the thought of him peering into the parlor, with its faded wallpaper and worn furniture. Her home can hardly be the way he remembers it.

She wonders if anything will be the way he remembers it. Certainly not his daughter, and perhaps not even his wife. His darling Lucy, safely tucked away in the parlor with a book in her hand, has no idea that her husband has just walked back into her life, darker and decidedly more terrifying. It seems as though they've only just settled into what could be called a normal existence without him, and now Benjamin Barker has returned to throw their lives off balance once again.

Fiddling nervously with her hair, Eleanor watches his eyes alight on Johanna. His face changes instantly from stoic apathy to a vulnerable, wounded look. Johanna is the very picture of her mother - everything from the light sprinkling of freckles across her delicate nose to the gentle, gold-spun hair framing her face - and Nellie feels a melancholy ache settle in her chest, knowing that Mr. Barker is looking at his child for the first time since she was a mere squalling babe. He hasn't been here as Nellie has, to see Johanna learn to walk, or bake her first pie, or watch her grow into the lovely young woman she's become. Unable to imagine not being around to witness Johanna's childhood, Eleanor wraps her arms around herself, blinking back tears.

Johanna regards her father warily, a slight frown on her pretty face as she stares back at him. She doesn't speak, obviously aware of the very delicate atmosphere she has unwillingly been thrust into but she returns Mr. Barker's gaze without hesitation, studying him through the same dark eyes. Shying away from anyone remotely intimidating isn't in the girl's nature - Johanna often deals with their more rowdy customers when the baker isn't around to do it herself - and Eleanor knows she'll sit there, gazing at him until Mr. Barker looks away.

When he speaks, breaking the strange spell that has fallen over them all, Johanna nearly jumps. His words strangled, he mumbles, "My little lamb," and stumbles back a bit. Nellie hovers near his elbow to catch him in the event that he collapses from the shock.

"There, there, dear," she says in a high, panicked voice. "Sit yourself down, now."

Mr. Barker doesn't move at her request, turning his head quickly to gaze at her, and Eleanor very nearly wilts beneath his scrutiny. The look in his eyes is desperate, almost pleading and Eleanor has a feeling of trying to placate a lost and frightened child. "Where is Lucy?" He asks, sounding gruff and timid all at once, as though terrified to discover the answer. His eyes slide back to his daughter, and they soften immediately to see the girl still staring at him.

Nellie takes a moment to watch his throat contract as he swallows hard before she breathes, "Johanna, my love. Go get your mother."

Johanna stands, frowning. "Are you sure - "

"I'm quite alright, dear," Nellie reassures her. "Now 'urry along." The girl scurries from the room, a blur of blonde hair and pale blue skirts. Alone now, Nellie takes Mr. Barker by the arm and nearly forces him into a chair. "Sit. I'll get you a drink, Mr. Barker." When he gives a tentative nod, she springs into action, practically sprinting behind the counter to grab a glass and a bottle of gin. Having something to do that doesn't involve wringing her hands and gaping is such a relief that she barely hears his softly spoken words. "What's that, Mr. Barker?"

He hesitates, and she tries to remember if he's always been so reluctant to speak or if Botany Bay had put that timidity in him. "It's not Barker. Not anymore."

For a moment, she loses herself in his dark gaze, stunned into breathlessness to find such intensity behind such simple words. Before she can find her voice again to ask what he means, or what name he's calling himself nowadays, the sound of footsteps from the parlor interrupts them. Heart in her mouth, Eleanor stops in the middle of pouring the former Mr. Barker his drink, too fascinated by what's about to happen next to focus on trivial things like aiming alcohol into a glass. Unable to decide whose reaction would be the most interesting to watch, she settles for flitting her gaze back and forth between Lucy and her long-lost husband.

The yellow-haired mother and daughter appear in the doorway, Johanna walking into the room ahead of Lucy, immediately moving to Eleanor's side as if to reassure herself that this strange man hasn't harmed her while they were alone. Nellie is too busy staring at the couple to do anything but grasp Johanna's hand tightly in her own, hoping the strength of someone else will be enough to stop the quaking in her knees. The girl looks perplexed by her aunt's peculiar behavior but she squeezes back, fingers tightening around Nellie's. and suddenly the baker feels a little stronger than she had before.

Together, they watch Lucy stop in the doorway, looking enchantingly angelic in a white gown, her blonde hair pulled back in an intricate bun that Eleanor had spent half the morning pinning up. Her fair brow furrowed sweetly, she glances first at her daughter and the baker before turning to their visitor.

The dark-haired man stares at her, lips parted and eyes looking suspiciously wet. So slowly that his movements themselves seem hesitant and deliberate - just like the way he speaks - this new man stands, nearly trembling in his place. "Lucy," he says reverently, and Nellie remembers that he always said her name that way, like he was uttering a prayer to some bloody saint on high.

"Auntie Nell," Johanna whispers, tugging on their joined hands. "What's going on?"

Nellie smiles faintly. "Just wait, dearie. It'll all become too bloody clear in a tick."

Recognition dawns in Lucy's stunned expression, and she stares, tears beginning to fill her wide blue eyes. Lucy seems just as stunned as Eleanor had been to see the state in which Benjamin has returned to them, the gentle barber gone and a hardened man, twisted by time and life's cruelties in his place. Lucy opens her mouth to speak, falters and takes a step forward instead. The pie shop is so quiet that Eleanor can hear the sounds of London's nightlife beginning to stir; beggars hobbling up and down the lane in hopes of finding somewhere to sleep, the rattle of carriages hurrying to their final destinations, sooty-faced chimney sweeps starting for home with cheerful whistles and those who can afford the drug heading to opium dens for their fix.

Lucy finally manages to find her voice, the words faint and cracked as she whispers, "Benjamin?" Watching tears slip down Lucy's cheeks, Eleanor barely manages to glimpse her former tenant's terse nod. Lucy takes another step and before any of them can blink, she's thrown herself into his arms, sobbing into the leather of his jacket.

The man's arms slowly come around his wife, almost mechanically, and Nellie imagines it's been a very long time since he embraced anyone. They're quite the odd sight, Mr. and Mrs. Barker - like a living contrast between the glow of morning and the dark of night. Two things that are never associated with one another, and actually seeing them together, like the look of the morning sky before the moon has disappeared, is enough to momentarily render the watcher breathless. The sight of the two of them, wrapped in each other's arms in the middle of the pie shop, is too much for Eleanor and she turns from them to look at Johanna.

The young blonde is staring at her parents, shocked tears in her eyes and if Eleanor has to see one more person cry she thinks she might scream. Using the hand that Johanna isn't clinging to, Eleanor brushes her knuckles against the girl's smooth cheek and says, "Come with me, darlin'." She leads Johanna into the kitchen, and the blonde follow meekly, obviously too stunned to do otherwise. Eleanor doesn't leave the couple alone merely for the sake of their privacy in a tender moment, but because she has suddenly realized that looking at them together doesn't hurt any less than it had fifteen years ago. She wonders if her heart will ever stop aching at the mere sight of Benjamin Barker looking at his wife so affectionately. Surely fifteen years is long enough to get over even the most intense infatuation?

In the kitchen, Nellie helps Johanna onto one of the stools lining the counter and lingers just long enough to make sure she's stable enough to keep her balance before moving quickly to the cabinets. She takes up a bottle of gin, uncorking it and murmuring, "Don't tell your mother," as she pours the girl a glass.

Johanna takes it gratefully, sipping like she would on a cup of tea and Eleanor resists the urge to roll her eyes. For a while, neither of them speaks; the only sound is Lucy's faint sobs from the front of the pie shop, and a low murmur that must be Mr. Barker's voice.

"That-that man is my father?" Johanna finally asks in a quivering voice over the rim of her glass. Eleanor nods, patting the girl's hand soothingly. Johanna shakes her head, the crease over her brow deepening somewhat, and Eleanor can't help but think she looks adorably confused. "But...he doesn't look anything like mother's pictures."

Nellie frowns. Those blasted photographs. Lucy is forever brooding over them, staring at the images of Benjamin with their infant daughter on his knee, smiling his secret smile. In Nellie's opinion, she has spent far too much time over the years ruminating on the man she has lost, and too little of her time living in the present, with her daughter - the other family she had left. "Those pictures are what 'e looked like in the past, love," she reminds Johanna gently. "Prison can change a man just as surely as the years can."

"But Auntie Nell - " Johanna stops at the sound of approaching footsteps, quickly sliding her glass of gin over to Nellie, who picks it up to pretend as if it had been hers all along.

Lucy opens the door timidly, peering inside with wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. "We're," she stops when her voice cracks, clears her throat and begins again more confidently. "We're going to go upstairs for a while."

Standing quickly from her stool, Johanna takes a step toward her mother. "Mother, are you sure you wouldn't like for me to come with you?"

Lucy shakes her head, but looks a little unsure, glancing quickly behind her. "No, darling. Don't be silly. I'll...I'll be fine." She turns blue eyes from Johanna to Nellie, a pleading look on her pale face. "Eleanor, could you - "

"Already a'ead of you, dearie," Nellie forces a smile and nods behind Lucy. She can't see him, but she can practically sense Mr. Barker's dark presence standing behind his wife. "Run off, now. I'll 'andle this."

Breaking into a relieved smile, Lucy says, "Thank you, Eleanor." Sparing one last reassuring look at Johanna, the blonde disappears through the door again and seconds later, the creak of the stairs echoes through the silent house - a light, dainty step followed by the louder scuffle of heavy boots.

"I don't understand," Johanna whispers once their footsteps fade away. "I thought he was never coming back. You told me he'd been sent away for life."

Eleanor lifts one frail shoulder in a shrug, sliding the glass of gin back to Johanna. " 'e was. Must 'ave escaped." She frowns. "And I never said 'e wasn't comin' back, I said wasn't _s'posed_ to come back. There's a rather large difference, love."

"Only to you, Auntie Nell," Johanna smiles fondly. Hesitantly, she traces her index finger over the rim of her glass, looking very deep in thought. "And...you're sure he didn't do what everyone says he did?"

Stunned, Eleanor places her hands on her hips and regards Johanna through narrowed eyes. "Pet, I must 'ave told you a thousand times since you were a tiny bit of a thing that your father was a good man what never did anyone no 'arm."

Johanna nods hurriedly, biting her lip. "Yes, I know. I always believed you, of course. In mother's pictures, he seems too gentle and kind to do anything unlawful. But...now he looks entirely capable of doing something untoward." She ducks her head with a shameful blush, as though regretting her own words.

Nellie feels her heart go out to the girl - she can't imagine being sixteen and never knowing her own father - and she reaches out to brush Johanna's hair from her face. "Now, stop this. Your father may look different, but I'm sure that once 'e's 'ere for a tick, 'e'll be just as sweet-natured as 'e used to be." Remembering the haunted look in Mr. Barker's eyes, she very much doubts this to be true and while she prides herself of being honest with Johanna, Eleanor doesn't have the heart to do so now. She smiles, running her thumb along Johanna's cheekbone tenderly. "Your father's home again, love. That's a good thing, eh?"

Johanna nods meekly, the beginnings of a smile making itself known on her young face. "Yes, I suppose it is." She turns dark eyes above their heads, to the ceiling. "What do you think they're doing up there?"

Her heart constricts at the mere possibilities - that Lucy is up there with him now, holding him and listening to the voice they've all been deprived of for so long - but Eleanor forces a strained smile anyway. "Talkin', I imagine. 'aven't 'ad a conversation in fifteen years, they must 'ave quite a bit to say."

"What are they talking about, though?" Johanna asks, and Nellie decides she doesn't like someone so young looking so troubled.

"The weather," she deadpans, and Johanna breaks into an amused grin. "What? You don't think so? It's terribly cloudy nowadays. I wouldn't wonder if Mr. Barker finds it a bit unsettlin', with all that time 'e spent in Australia. Bloody sunny there, y'know. Not that you can tell from lookin' at 'im."

"Auntie Nell," Johanna laughs. "I'm trying to be serious."

"So am I," she says mockingly, sending the girl into another fit of laughter and it relieves Eleanor to hear the familiar, carefree sound when her very world is altering and changing even as she stands there.

Pouring Johanna another helping of gin, Eleanor tries not to think of what the Barkers could really be doing all alone, in the rooms they used to share so many years ago. In truth, she can't stand the thought of them upstairs together, talking and doing God knows what else while she's down here, plying their daughter with the comfort of gin and trying to keep herself from flying apart all at once, exploding all over the pie shop in a mess of lace and hair pins and flour. Her mind can only focus on one thing, one thought that leaves her light-headed and trembling.

_He's home. He's home. Benjamin Barker is home at last._


	2. A Rose By Any Other Name

_Proof of Heaven_

It feels like a dream. A surreal, vivid, wonderful dream. He's afraid that at any moment, he'll open his eyes to a dark cell, thousands of miles from his loved ones. It's certainly happened before - it still pains him to remember the nights he woke up in a cold sweat, eyes searching frantically for the family that had felt so tangible only moments ago - so he keeps his dark eyes on Lucy as she flits nervously about the room. She occupies herself with searching for a blanket, filling up a basin with cool water and rearranging the knitting needles lying on an end table.

He watches her surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, taking a turn about the room, frowning at knick-knacks and bric-a-brac but not touching anything. He cannot say that she looks the way he remembers; Lucy's face had long ago become nothing but a blur. He'd known she had a luminous smile and sparkling blue eyes, but he could never picture them. Try as he might every time he closed his eyes, Sweeney could never conjure the image of his wife. But oh, how he remembers now. She's beautiful and pale - skin like creamy milk, with a smile sweeter than the toffees she so loved. But there's something new in her eyes, he'd seen it in the landlady's eyes as well, before she recognized him - a certain weariness, as though the world has dealt them more than they could bear. It makes him feel a little less alone, to know that he isn't the only who has suffered.

Turning his attention to the long, waist-high oak table pushed against one wall, his eyes fall on a picture frame next to a vase of cheerful pink tulips. He scowls at it, having the sensation of looking at a distant relative or an old friend, someone he used to know very well, and he runs one long finger along the side of the double frame. One side shows a smiling young man with a blonde child on his knee. His hands hold her gently to him, and the little girl seems entirely enamored with her own little fists, one clutching a dolly tightly, the fingers of the other lodged firmly in her mouth.

Sweeney swallows, quickly averting his eyes to the next portrait. It isn't any better, the same man standing in a finely made suit, holding the cherub-faced child to him, both of them smiling.

"Those are the only pictures I have of you with Johanna," Lucy says, and her voice is much closer than he expects. Withdrawing his hand quickly from the frame as though scalded, Sweeney turns to look at her smiling face. "We'll be able to take more now."

Pressing a hand to his arm and guiding him to the settee, Lucy seems much more composed, sniffling only a little, eyes mostly dry. As though fearing he might be cold, dressed in his leather coat in the warm room, she takes up a thin blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders with shaking hands. Her fingers linger at his shoulders in a gentle caress, and the warmth in her eyes then overwhelms him.

"Can I get you anything?" She asks, fiddling with her ruffled dress sleeve and turning her eyes to the floor. "Eleanor has quite a large supply of alcohol downstairs." She wrinkles her nose, obviously disapproving of this. "But I'm sure I could find something else - " She stops when he shakes his head slowly. Lucy settles onto the settee next to him, arms wrapping around his neck as she presses herself into him tightly, as though she doesn't plan on letting go anytime soon. "I can't believe you're home," she breathes into his neck, and he can scarcely believe it either.

Over the years, he's thought of millions of things to say to her when the time finally came, but now that it's here, now that she has her arms wrapped around him, none of those things seem powerful enough. None of them could ever really convey what he's feeling and every time he opens his mouth, the words turn to ash on his tongue.

Settling more comfortably into his side, Lucy says suddenly, "You said you would come home one day, but Benjamin..." She trails off, a troubled look in her eyes and he's glad she misses the way he flinches at the sound of his name. "Men never return from places like that. The stories I've heard...it's horrifying." She shakes her head, fingers tightening their grip on his arm. "How did you escape?"

He stiffens at her question, and she notices, drawing back a little to look at him. Sliding in mud, traipsing through forests for days and never once stopping for fear of being caught or picked apart by army ants, swimming in the piranha and crocodile-infested waters, floating for what must have been thousands of miles on a burlap sack stuffed with straw and coconuts upon the sea. The last thing he wants to do is speak of his harrowing escape from that eternal purgatory. Jaw clenched, he says tightly, "I don't want to talk about it."

She visibly flinches at his harsh tone, and he regrets speaking at all. Staring long and hard at him, tears in her eyes, Lucy reaches out to trail her fingers over his cheekbone. She sounds choked as she whispers, "My God. What did they do to you?"

Even if he wanted to, he could never tell her. Could never truly convey the horrors of Botany Bay for the hellish experiences they were, could never tell her that he feels like he hasn't slept in fifteen years, that he sees blood every time he closes his eyes, that he still can't sleep without fearing rats or even men themselves will devour him in his sleep, that he hears the lash of a whip and pained shrieks when he's alone.

As though hoping to draw his attention away from whatever has placed that dark look on his face, Lucy pulls her hand away and begins lightly, "I've been working. There's a sweet old lady who owns a charming little dress shop near St. Dunstan's market. She gave me a job as a seamstress several years ago. I wasn't very good at first, but I've gotten much better."

He wants to say something, tell her how proud he is that she's been taking care of herself and Johanna, but he feels as though someone has placed a heavy stone on his tongue, weighing it down and preventing the words from spilling from his mouth. So he only looks at her, wondering if she understands anyway.

She isn't watching him though, her eyes on the floor and her lips pursed. "It wasn't easy at first. Sometimes it still isn't."

--

_The day is a bright one, and through the windows, light bathes the entire room in liquid sunshine. Silence has settled over the upper floor now that Johanna has finally settled down for an afternoon nap, nestled safely in her crib. Lucy stands at the window, one hand pressed against the glass, gazing out onto the street below. The view from this room is terrible compared to the one from Benjamin's shop, with its huge window overlooking all of Fleet Street, but she couldn't bear to stay in there any longer. His presence is everywhere in there - the barber's chair he used to sit in while he waited for the first customer in the morning, the shaving brushes and bottles still lined neatly on the dresser, the box of gleaming razors, resplendent even without his gentle hand to hold them. _

_She hasn't slept in the bedroom since he'd been taken, although she'd tried once. The sheets smelled of him, and Lucy couldn't take that either. She sleeps on the small settee instead, waking up in rumpled gowns every morning, but she can't bring herself to mind. She doesn't see the point in anything anymore. Why should she care if her dresses are wrinkled and stained? Benjamin isn't here to admire them anymore. What does it matter if she eats the food Mrs. Lovett brings her? Benjamin isn't here to care if she wastes away. Why should she even bother to get off the settee every time the sun rises? She has no one to get up for, no one who will smile at her and hold her. She has no one. Not anymore. _

_Pressing her forehead to the cool glass of the windowpane, Lucy sighs, watching her breath fog the window. Not quite knowing what she's searching for - a sign, perhaps, or maybe her husband himself - Lucy scans the street quickly, feeling a sense of disappointment when she doesn't spot whatever she'd been looking for, only the same sights she sees every day. She finds it intolerable that everyone else can go on with their lives when her own life has halted so completely. _

_A firm knock on the door draws Lucy sharply from her thoughts. As always, Mrs. Lovett doesn't wait to be invited in, bustling into the room carrying a tray of food in one hand and a rag fisted in the other. "Brought you some lunch, dear," she says cheerily, her disapproving eyes not on Lucy but on the general disarray of the small apartment. "And I think I'll clean a bit while I'm up 'ere. S'not good for that baby of yours to be breathin' all that dust."_

_An annoyed expression clouds Lucy's features as she turns back to the window. "I'm a little busy, Mrs. Lovett," she huffs. "Could you come back later?"_

_Mrs. Lovett snorts derisively. "Busy starin' out the window? Tell you what, dearie - I won't go near your precious broodin' spot while I work, eh?"_

"_You'll wake the baby," Lucy tries again._

_However, Mrs. Lovett seems determined to get the upper rooms completely spotless because she ignores Lucy's warning, fluttering about with her rag to polish candlesticks and the tops of dressers, humming faintly to herself. Lucy watches the redhead's reflection in the glass of the windowpane, noticing the way Mrs. Lovett quiets her humming and practically tiptoes whenever she comes near Johanna's crib, the smallest of grins on her face when she peers inside to look at the infant as she passes. Her attitude around Johanna reminds Lucy so much of Benjamin's own giddiness towards his daughter. _

"_Do you think he'll ever come back, Mrs. Lovett?" She asks, pressing her fingers to the glass and staring vacantly past the window._

_Mrs. Lovett pauses in scrubbing vigorously at an end table with her rag and varnish. With forced cheeriness, she says, "As I've said before, I don't know. I 'ope so."_

_Lucy sighs, her voice trembling, "I miss him so much."_

_Straightening and putting a hand on her hip, Mrs. Lovett stares at Lucy's back for a long moment. "Y'know, it's been a month. Don't you think you should try to leave the 'ouse? Or just come downstairs for a spell? Might do you some good, love."_

_Shaking her head, Lucy doesn't bother turning around. "I don't want to leave. What's the point, anymore? Besides, he's everywhere in here." Her eyes begin to fill up, and she closes them, letting tears slip down her cheeks. "I can still smell his cologne, if I really try."_

_Mrs. Lovett makes a small noise of irritation in the back of her throat. "Sooner or later, you're goin' to 'ave to move on with your life."_

_Spurred into action, Lucy whirls around, blue eyes incredulous. "Move on? How am I supposed to move on? He's gone, Mrs. Lovett!" She makes a show of gesturing about the empty flat. "My husband is gone and he's never coming back!"_

_The fire and conviction in Mrs. Lovett's eyes then is something Lucy has never seen before and she finds herself wanting to shrink away from her landlady's ire. "Alright, fine. Yes, Benjamin is gone. But Johanna is not," Mrs. Lovett snaps. "She's right bloody 'ere and she needs you! So stop mopin' and take care of your daughter!"_

"_How dare you talk to me like that," Lucy breathes, shocked. "I'm doing the best I can. You have no idea what I'm going through!"_

_Mrs. Lovett shrugs, fiddling idly with the rag in her hands. "Per'aps not. But I know that I 'ear you up 'ere pacin' at all hours of the day. I know that you 'aven't been eatin' the food I bring you. An' I know that Johanna spent an hour screamin' 'er lungs out last night before you got up and tended to 'er."_

_Lucy glares. "I didn't hear her, Mrs. Lovett. I was sleeping. And whether I pace or not, eat or not, sleep or not, is no concern of yours."_

"_If you only 'ad yourself to take care of, I'd let you waste away," Mrs. Lovett says tersely. "But it's not just you up 'ere. I won't tolerate you sulkin' about, allowin' the apartment to get so sodding filthy, or lettin' your daughter cry 'erself sick every night because you're too tuckered out from cryin' yourself to sleep to tend to 'er!" The baker breathes out through her nose, obviously livid. "And you got rent, you'know. Due in a week."_

_At first, Lucy doesn't move or even blink, as if she hasn't heard a word of Mrs. Lovett's tirade. Lower lip trembling dangerously, Lucy wavers on her feet for a long moment before her legs give out and she drops to her knees, bursting into tears. "I don't know what to do," she sobs. "I-I can't take this anymore."_

_Shocked into silence by Lucy's outburst, Mrs. Lovett only stares, open-mouthed and gaping like a fish for several moments before pity clouds her dark eyes. Tossing her rag onto the end table and glancing once in Johanna's direction to make sure the child is still sleeping, Mrs. Lovett walks slowly over to Lucy's pitiful form huddled on the floor. Reaching down and taking Lucy by the arm, she pulls the woman up and leads her to the settee with much difficulty, maneuvering them both around tables and chairs, muttering to herself about troublesome tenants the whole way. When they finally make it, Mrs. Lovett settles herself beside Lucy, smoothing her hand over her back and murmuring, "There, there, dear. Stop this, now."_

"_He isn't coming back," Lucy wails, hunched over and crying into her hands. "I'll never see him again, Mrs. Lovett."_

_Mrs. Lovett draws her hand away from Lucy, her voice steely as she snaps, "So what if 'e isn't? You're goin' to just stop livin' then? Your life is over because your 'usband is gone?" She shakes her head, looking somewhere between confused and disgusted. "You know very well that your Benjamin wouldn't want you doin' this to yourself. Wallowin' in self-pity for the rest of your life."_

_Lucy nods tearfully. "I know he wouldn't but I can't help it."_

"_And what about your lit'le girl, hm?" Mrs. Lovett prods. "She needs you, not a ghost of a woman what calls herself a mother."_

_Lucy sniffles, peeking out from behind her hands._

_Mrs. Lovett turns dark, accusing eyes on Lucy. "If you're not goin' to live for yourself, you should at least do it for Johanna. It would be right selfish to let yourself go like this - she'll 'ave a 'ard enough time as it is without a father."_

_Straightening herself and collapsing against the settee cushions, Lucy wipes at her cheeks. "The rent," she says meekly. "I can't possibly afford to stay here anymore. There's no income..." She trails off, eyes darting to Johanna's crib, where the child still sleeps soundly. "What am I going to do?"_

_Clucking her tongue, Mrs. Lovett taps her temple with one finger, staring at Lucy as though she's daft for not already knowing the answer. "You're goin' to get a job, that's what. To support yourself and your baby."_

"_Oh, Mrs. Lovett," Lucy shakes her head pitifully. "I don't know how to do anything."_

_Mrs. Lovett's eyes narrow. "Well learn, then."_

_Lucy nods, closing her eyes and not bothering to wipe at her cheeks as tears slip out. Curling up on the settee as Mrs. Lovett stands up and wipes her hands on her skirts, Lucy listens to her landlady's retreating footsteps. _

"_Eat your lunch now," she says, and from the sound of her voice, Lucy can tell she's standing by the door. "I expect an empty tray when I return." Not bothering to acknowledge her but knowing she'll obey, Lucy keeps still, waiting to hear the door click shut. It opens, but before Mrs. Lovett closes it behind her, she gives one last word of encouragement, her voice firm and resolved, "And Mr. Barker is comin' back. You wait an' see, dearie."_

--

Lucy shakes her head, wiping primly at her cheeks with a laced handkerchief. "Eleanor always believed you'd come back. Long after I stopped hoping."

Aware that he's practically gaping at her, Sweeney turns away to glare at the floor. He can't imagine the pain she must have been in, but it seems so unlike his Lucy to lose hope, to let her life fall apart before her very eyes. He'd told her the day before he was shipped out that he would come back for her, no matter what it took. Hadn't his promise been enough to keep her from despair? "I told you I would come back."

Taken aback by his curtness, Lucy stares at him. "Men don't return from Botany Bay, Benjamin. I thought I'd lost you."

Brow furrowed, he says, stonily, "I promised you I would return. That should have been enough."

"It doesn't matter," Lucy protests, sounding hurt. "You're home now. Eleanor helped me get back on my feet; things are better."

He nods, still unable to look at her. Their landlady had believed his promise, but his own wife had not. Granted, Mrs. Lovett had always been terribly optimistic, if he remembers her correctly. Always a smiling, cheery creature whenever he encountered her.

Lucy reaches out to grasp his hands in her own and the feel of her soft skin only reminds him of how calloused his own have become. "That was Johanna downstairs, you know. She's grown so much..." She trails off, sighing. "She works in the pie shop now, with Eleanor. She's much better at it than I was."

Sweeney frowns at her, puzzled. Most of his memories are vague and fuzzy, but he does remember that every time Lucy tried to cook him dinner, it was blackened and burnt - or even worse, not cooked enough. More often than not, he would sneak downstairs to Mrs. Lovett's pie shop after Lucy went to bed to get something well-cooked to eat. While he loved his wife, she'd never been much of a homemaker.

At his puzzled expression, Lucy smiles guiltily. "It didn't work out. I can't bake anything, as you know. Eleanor tried to be patient, but more often than not I ended up burning the pies and she'd shoo me out of the kitchen with a broom. Or a rolling pin, if she was angry enough."

At one time, he might have smiled at the image of the woman downstairs chasing his wife out of the kitchen with her rolling pin, but now the only sign of his amusement is a faint lightening in his eyes, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Lucy lets go of his hands, shifting ever nearer. "I know this must be overwhelming," she says. "But I promise you'll feel like you never left in no time at all."

Suddenly, almost shyly, she leans toward him, one soft hand cradling his cheek, fingers gently smoothing over his jaw. Frozen, he watches as her eyes flutter shut, and suddenly his heart constricts as he realizes her intention. Her lips brush hesitantly against his and the feeling of warmth and familiarity and _home_ that surges through him is enough to nearly send him to his knees at her feet. He draws her closer to him, wrapping one arm around her slender waist as he deepens the kiss, moving his mouth more eagerly against hers.

It's been too long, and she still tastes of vanilla. It feels like a dream, one he's had too many times before that only turned to dust when he opened his eyes to the harsh sunlight of Australia. As if to prove to himself that he is indeed home again, Sweeney tightens his grip on his wife, one hand reaching to weave its way into her golden tresses. He moves his mouth violently against her more timid one, his teeth biting roughly at her lip; he thinks he might taste blood, but he's too distracted to pay it any mind.

Lost in his euphoria, he doesn't notice she's tensed in his arms until he feels her struggle against him, eager to break away. Lucy places her hands on his chest, pushing him back. He releases her, shocked when she jerks away from him, scrambling to the other side of the settee with her fingers against her bloodied lip and eyes wide with shock.

Breathing heavily, Sweeney stares, wide-eyed as Lucy inches further away, back pressed against the arm of the sofa, expression leery. "I-I'm sorry," he says softly. "I don't know what came over me."

Still too stunned to speak, she nods slowly, bringing her hand away from her mouth and staring fixedly at the blood there. Casting her eyes to him after a moment, she offers him a weak smile. "It's alright, Benjamin."

Not trusting himself to be near her, Sweeney stands, moving away from the settee to gaze out the small window overlooking Fleet Street. It's unsettling, that even the view outside the window has changed while he was gone - the shop across the street used to sell old, dusty books, but now the storefront is boarded up and deserted. Next door there was a small pub where locals would flock in the evenings, gathering outside to converse on the sidewalks. He would often amuse himself with watching drunken men stumble out in the wee hours of the morning, singing loudly and tripping over their own feet. Now, the little pub has become a butcher's shop with slabs of meat hanging in the window.

Watching a beggar totter down the street with her ragged shawl wrapped around her shoulders, he frowns and says, "It's Todd now. Sweeney Todd."

Rising from the settee to slowly make her way to him, Lucy furrows her brow. "You changed your name? What's wrong with Benjamin?"

_Benjamin Barker is dead_. He doesn't say it, but he wants to. His Lucy would never understand how someone could be gone, yet still breathing. She wouldn't understand that he'd left Benjamin Barker behind the moment he realized being courteous and selfless would never get him anywhere in a place like Botany Bay. Sweeney had abandoned Barker's dead weight on the desolate shore, starved and beaten, and he'd never looked back.

He doesn't say any of this, preferring instead to continue staring out the window, watching the same beggar woman peer inside the window of the butcher's shop across the street, as if hoping someone will throw her a scrap of meat.

Behind him, he hears Lucy sigh and begin to walk toward him cautiously. Laying a gentle hand on his arm, she peers over his shoulder, as if searching for whatever he finds more interesting than their conversation. Following his gaze to the butcher's shop, she frowns and says, "Little pubs like Mr. Bates' couldn't afford to stay open in such hard times. He had to close about three years after you...left."

It's an interesting way to word his imprisonment- leaving. It makes the whole affair sound quite mild, tame in comparison to what had really happened, as though he'd merely stepped onto the ship and waved goodbye to his wife and child from the deck. As though he hadn't boarded the boat chained and beaten, hopeless before London was even out of sight.

Unaware of his scorn, Lucy smiles fondly. "I used to sit for hours, watching people go in and out all day and night. Mr. Bates always managed to bring in the most varied ilk, didn't he?" When Sweeney does nothing but tilt his head slightly in acknowledgment, Lucy continues, "Everyone from the poorest merchant to the most well-to-do judge in the same pub. Quite rare nowadays."

As if she's spoken some sort of magical incantation, Sweeney spins around, eyes wild. Startled, Lucy stumbles backward, catching herself on the edge of a table. "Judge Turpin," he snarls, spitting the word out like something foul. The venerable, nefarious Judge Turpin. The reason Sweeney wasted fifteen years of his life sweating in a living hell, the reason he knows nothing about his only daughter, is something foul indeed.

Lucy stares, bewildered. "Judge Turpin? What about him?"

"Where he is?" Sweeney asks, taking a step toward his wife.

Lucy pales at the desperate look on his face, the most animated he's been since he walked through the door. "In London, of course; where he's always been." That manic look in his eyes hasn't abated and Lucy swallows, taking a timid step toward him. "At least, as far as I know. I haven't seen him in years."

"He's left you alone?" Sweeney says, narrowing his eyes.

"Of course he has." Brow furrowed, Lucy reaches Sweeney's side and places slender hands on his chest. "Why don't you rest for a while? All this excitement must be taxing." She smiles understandingly, taking him gently by the arm and leading him toward the settee. "And then when you're ready, you can come downstairs and meet Johanna properly. I'm sure Eleanor wouldn't mind making a couple of pies for us."

Sweeney nods once, almost numbly. Looking relieved, Lucy pushes him gently onto the settee and leans down as if to kiss him, but thinking better of it, hesitates before touching his hair briefly. Straightening, she says softly, "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

Leaving him staring vacantly at the floor, Lucy closes the door behind her.

--

Silence is often something desired by respectable people, solitude in which to read their books or study, quiet when they lie down at night to rest and quiet when they take their morning tea. Most appreciate the calm and tranquility that comes with the hush of nothing but a summer's breeze or a gently ticking clock. However, silence is not something to be tolerated between Eleanor and Johanna.

Between the two of them, there is always much to say and never enough time in the day to say it. They make it a general rule to never let silence linger long between them, their personalities far better suited to constant chatter, impromptu waltzes with brooms and singing English nursery rhymes at the top of their lungs while they clean up after a long day.

When they serve customers, topping off ale and delivering pies to tables, there is a constant flow of chatter between them even from across the room, which only stops to take orders or ask after a customer's health. When they wash dishes, they complain about the amount of food a single person can shovel into their mouths. When they're in the parlor on quiet evenings, they have lively debates over which sort of penny dreadful is more entertaining to read - lurid romances or lively adventures.

And when they're playing cards, they murmur amongst themselves about what a wonderful hand they have, taunt one another regarding their superior skills, spill gin all over their cards and giggle as quietly as they can as they mop up the mess, not wanting to alert Lucy. Which is exactly why the two women do not often play whisk - the famously quiet card game just isn't suited to their rambunctious natures.

At a table in the pie shop, well past nine o'clock, the two women sit across from each other in utter silence, both wearing bored expressions. "Why are we playing this?" Johanna asks, exasperation evident in her features as she stares forlornly at her cards.

Chin in palm, Nellie sighs. "Cause it's not noisy. An' your parents need as lit'le noise as possible so they can talk."

Johanna gives her a skeptical look. "You just want to hear what they're saying."

"They're so bloody quiet," Nellie complains, scowling at her cards. "We been sittin' 'ere bein' silent as the grave for over an hour and not a peep from up there!"

"Yes, well, it might take some time before they can properly discuss the mechanics of the weather, Auntie Nell," Johanna says dryly and Eleanor glares in return.

Before she can come up with a proper retort, footsteps in the doorway cause both women to look at each other, eyes wide. Turning breathlessly to the entryway, Eleanor wonders if it's wrong for her heart to speed up at the thought of Mr. Barker lurking behind the doorframe. However, it isn't Mr. Barker making his way into the shop, it's Lucy.

Blonde hair slightly mussed and eyes vacant, Lucy slowly makes her way to their table and pulls back a chair, sinking into it. Sighing, she stares mournfully at the cards meticulously laid out on the table. Studying her carefully, Eleanor can't help but wonder what they'd done up there. While disheveled, Lucy doesn't look sufficiently rumpled enough for the Barkers to have become _too_ reacquainted, but her eyes are dry, which tells Eleanor that most of her hysterics had taken place in the pie shop. What had _happened_? The suspense is nearly enough to send Nellie jumping out of her chair.

After several moments of agonizing silence, Lucy finally shakes her head and murmurs, "Sweeney Todd."

Nellie exchanges a furtive glance with Johanna. "What's that, dear?"

Fingers reaching up too massage her temple, Lucy says more clearly, "He's calling himself Sweeney Todd now."

_Sweeney Todd_. She almost shivers, repressing the urge to repeat it out loud and test if it feels as velvet on her tongue as it sounds. It's a dark name, poetic almost. A name Eleanor might have read in one of those gothic novels Johanna is so fond of, a dark and brooding man standing on the wild moors beneath the stars. It suits him, this new man with Benjamin Barker's eyes. Frowning, Eleanor lifts her glass of gin, staring into it scornfully. "Well of course 'e 'ad to change 'is name. Can't expect to go around callin' 'im Benjamin Barker - 'e'd be shipped right back to where 'e came from!"

"I suppose so," Lucy agrees, still looking troubled.

Fiddling anxiously with her cards, Johanna clears her throat. "Where is he now, mother?"

Lucy casts sullen blue eyes overhead. "Resting, I imagine." Glancing at Nellie and then back to her daughter, she says, "Darling, would you mind giving me a moment with Eleanor, please?"

Lips pursed in annoyance at being excluded like a child, Johanna nods and stands stiffly. "Of course. I'll be in the kitchen."

Nellie manages to catch the girl's eye as she exits, winking. It doesn't matter whether Lucy sends her out of the room or not, Nellie will convene with the girl after Lucy has turned in for the night, recounting the incident down to the last detail. Eleanor has never approved of Lucy's habit of shielding Johanna from the world, as though by simply making her oblivious to its evils, she is somehow protecting her from them.

Turning to Lucy with an expectant smile, Nellie waits for her to speak. Lucy isn't looking at her, drawing invisible patterns on the tabletop with her finger, a thoughtful frown on her fair countenance. Nellie isn't in the mood to play the waiting game, so she says, "What seems to be the trouble, dearie?"

"I don't know," Lucy says, finally glancing up into Nellie's eyes. "Something just isn't right. He's so different, he doesn't even look like himself."

"It's been fifteen years," Eleanor reminds her, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. " 'e's been imprisoned on an island notorious for 'oldin' the scum of the earth captive. I'd be unsettled if 'e '_adn't_ changed."

Lucy shakes her head, sighing into her palm. "He hardly spoke at all - he was always such a talker before. He used to rival you in that department, if I remember."

This time, Eleanor can't stop her eyes from rolling heavenward. "Love, 'e's been livin' in squalor amongst thieves and murders for nearly twenty years. You'll 'ave to forgive 'im if 'is conversational skills ain't what they used to be."

Frustration evident in her glower of exasperation, Lucy straightens in her seat, suddenly more animated. "It isn't just that, Eleanor. I could excuse him being disoriented at being home again, among civilized people. I could even excuse how rough he was when he kissed me."

Visibly flinching as Lucy's blushes at the admission and ducks her head, Eleanor brings her drink to her lips again, expertly throwing back the alcohol remaining at the bottom of the glass.

Raising her head, cheeks still pink, Lucy continues, "It's a feeling; a strange feeling that I can't seem to get rid of it." She reaches across the table, taking Nellie's hand, which causes the redhead to raise an eyebrow in surprise. Lucy doesn't seem to notice, staring out the window behind them, into the night. "I can't help but think...more than his name has changed."

Shifting uncomfortably and eyeing Lucy's hand still gripping hers, Nellie says, " 'e's in shock, is all. Give it time, dear. I'm sure the man you married is in there somewhere."

Lucy turns to Nellie, looking hopeful. "Do you really think he just needs time?"

The desperation in Lucy's eyes is so strong that Eleanor feels obligated to nod, giving Lucy the most motherly smile she can muster - the one she uses when Johanna is sick. "Of course, dear. Just you wait and see."

Rewarding Nellie with a grateful smile, Lucy squeezes the baker's hand before releasing it, placing her own in her lap. She returns to staring out the pie shop windows, a wistful expression on her face.

Eleanor drops her smile, raising her eyes to the ceiling thoughtfully. While it's the last thing that Lucy would want to hear, Nellie hasn't been able to shake her own feelings of unease since Sweeney Todd walked through their door. A gnawing deep in the pit of her stomach says a certain darkness lurks within this man masquerading in Barker's skin - as though all morality, decency and gentleness has been sapped away and left nothing but a hollow shell named Todd.

Something tells her that Benjamin Barker is gone, and he isn't coming back.

* * *

A/N - Thank you SO much for all the wonderful reviews, I'm so glad you all like this new story. I feel the need to restate it here since some of you have been a bit skeptical, but YES, this will be Sweenett. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but you're going to have to trust the fact that I could never write a Todd/Lucy story. Ever. Haha Just be patient with me:) And I'm sorry about the kiss, I know it must have been painful to read but it had to be done. LOL Also, just a warning, these flashbacks will probably end up being all out of order. Some of them might be right after Benjamin was shipped off, and others might be years afterward. They are in no particular order, but hopefully you'll be able to figure out where in time they take place:)


	3. Heavenly Reunion

_Proof of Heaven_

Three days. It's been three days since the return of Benjamin Barker as Sweeney Todd. It's also the number of times today that Eleanor has trudged upstairs during a lull in customers to check on the man, as per Lucy's instructions. _"Just keep an eye on him throughout the day, make sure he eats. He should be fine. Thank you so much for doing this, Mrs. Lovett." _Like the woman is talking about a defenseless puppy rather than a grown man. Though, Eleanor relents as she pinches her skirts between thumb and forefinger to climb the steps again, a puppy might be a tad easier to care for.

He makes her nervous, this new man. With Benjamin, she'd merely felt giddy in his presence, like a schoolgirl with a crush. Sweeney Todd makes her heart feel as though it's going to careen out of her chest at any moment when he so much as glances at her through those hooded eyes.

Not bothering to knock because he never responds anyway, Eleanor pushes the door open and peers inside the small upstairs apartment. The sitting room is tidy and brightly-lit, the curtains pushed aside to let in what little sunlight London has to offer. It's also empty, but Nellie expects this by now, slipping into the room and shutting the door firmly behind her. "Mr. Todd?" She calls, not counting on an answer.

The flat is quiet, almost unnaturally still. Johanna never liked spending time up here before her father's return, but now she practically lives downstairs. She hasn't quite gotten used to this strange, quiet man who isn't at all like the father she'd imagined.

When she isn't working, Lucy spends nearly all of her time upstairs with her husband, though what the two of them do or talk about is beyond Nellie - she never hears a sound from the newly reunited pair. It's disconcerting, considering how often she used to hear the Barkers all those years ago - talking in low voices, Johanna's hungry cries, or the sudden sound of light, rhythmic footsteps when Benjamin got it into his head that he wanted to dance with his wife. When Lucy does sneak downstairs, either while Mr. Todd is asleep or to fetch food for them both, she lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. She'll toy with Johanna's hair and look at Eleanor with this desperate, frightened gleam in her blue eyes, as though begging the pie maker to save her, but whether it's from the ghost of Benjamin Barker, or from herself, Nellie can never tell.

Walking quietly down the short hallway, she sees the bedroom door cracked open, like she had known it would be. Mr. Todd spends most of his time in that room, sitting on the edge of the bed, unmoving and staring out the little window with blank eyes. The floorboards creak noisily with her every footstep, and Eleanor swallows nervously, pausing outside the door to steady her breath and calm her racing heart. It never helps, but she does it anyway.

Pushing the door open, ignoring its protesting groan, she spots a lone figure standing near the window, motionless and stiff. His body looks tense, his back ramrod straight, as though he's preparing himself for an attack no one else sees coming. Brown eyes lingering on his disheveled curls, Eleanor braces herself against the doorframe. Pursing her lips, she wonders if he has even noticed her presence.

Sweeney Todd has a habit of ignoring her. She isn't sure if he does it deliberately, or if he is simply too lost in his head to hear her. Either way, she doesn't fancy being overlooked. Not once in her whole life has she ever let anyone ignore her - not when she was a scrawny little girl growing up with five brothers, not when she'd had to scream to get her point across when Albert was alive, and certainly not now, with the newly christened Mr. Todd. So after several moments of deafening silence, she clears her throat and says loudly, "Mr. Todd!"

He doesn't jump the way she'd thought he would, doesn't turn to her with wide, startled eyes. Instead, he merely shifts his weight from one foot to the other and continues staring out the window. She doesn't expect him to speak because he so rarely does, and only when spoken to. When he does, his voice is low and gravely, and he sounds as though it saps all of his strength just to string together a few words. It comes as a surprise when he says suddenly, "I heard you."

Eleanor fights the urge to blush; the man is obviously more observant than she gives him credit for. It's the loudest she's ever heard his voice and she fights the chill that threatens to overwhelm her whole body. Honestly, it's downright ridiculous the way she reacts to the sound of his voice. Instead, she takes another step into the room, not trusting herself to let go of the doorframe just yet. "Sorry, Mr. Todd. Sometimes I just can't tell with you," she says. "Just wanted to pop in and see if you needed anythin'." He doesn't acknowledge her words, his back still turned to her, and she's fairly certain he's lost again to whatever haunts him. "Gin, per'aps? Got a few extra pies downstairs, if you're 'ungry."

Mr. Todd shakes his head and Nellie frowns - he never takes anything she offers. He only eats when Lucy brings him food, never ventures past the upper floor. It almost as though there isn't an extra person living here at all, and if it wasn't for the number of times she stomps upstairs to look after him, she'd think she'd imagined him ever coming home to begin with. If not for Johanna, she might have been content to let Lucy bring her husband out of his shell in her own time. Johanna sits downstairs day after day, pestering Eleanor with her persistent questions about her father, why he doesn't speak to her, why he doesn't come downstairs. In fact, Eleanor is certain she'll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs when she returns, to ask what her father is doing. It isn't right, that he should come home only to shatter the poor girl's expectations.

Hands planted firmly on her hips, Eleanor says, "Y'know, Mr. Todd...it might do you some good to come downstairs for a spell. Must get awful lonely up 'ere while Lucy's gone, and I'm sure Johanna would love to speak with you." He doesn't respond, but she watches his reflection in the window frown deeply, sees the muscles in his back tense beneath his white shirt. "In fact, I _know _she'd love to 'ave your company, at least for a lit'le while."

While he continues to ignore her, Nellie can't help but wonder how it must feel to come home to a daughter you didn't raise, a wife you don't know anymore. He doesn't know anything about the family he's come home to, and what's worse, they know nothing about him or the man he's become. She wonders if it would mean anything to him that she wants to understand him, that Johanna would give anything to just talk to him.

Softly, as though speaking to a frightened animal, Eleanor says, "I know this must be difficult, Mr. Todd. I can't imagine bein' in your position. But you 'ave a daughter downstairs who waited 'er whole life to get to know you." She sighs, eyeing the lean frame on the other side of the room, eyes following the masculine curve of broad shoulders. "Does nothin' but talk about you all day - about to drive me bonkers, she is. At least consider it for my sanity, eh?"

After a moment in which he seems to be thinking very hard about something, Mr. Todd nods once. Eleanor beams happily at his back, relieved that he'd listened to her. She'd at least tried to get him to leave the lair he's made for himself up here. It's something to tell Johanna, in any case.

"Good," she says, still smiling. "Now 'ow about that gin?"

She watches his reflection in the window as he swallows and sighs. "Alright."

Feeling rather like she's accomplished some marvelous magic trick, Eleanor smiles and says cheerfully, "Back in a tick, then." Turning on her heel, knowing he won't acknowledge her exit, she scampers off to find a bottle of gin, her footsteps light on the stairs as she descends.

Johanna looks up from wiping down a particularly filthy table, eyes eager. "What did he say?"

"Not much. I yelled at 'im, actually."

Eyes wide, Johanna says, "What? Auntie Nell!"

"It was an accident," Eleanor says defensively. "I didn't think 'e 'eard me!"

Tossing her limp rag onto a table and sighing, Johanna drops down into a seat. "Well he's certainly not going to want to come down here now. He's probably frightened of you and your sharp tongue!"

Eleanor frowns. "You exaggerate, my love. And besides, 'e nodded at me. That 'as to mean somethin'...I just don't know what."

Looking unimpressed, Johanna fiddles with the rag on the table. "What else happened? Did he say anything at all?"

"Agreed to some gin," Nellie says, ducking behind the counter and wandering into the kitchen. The last time she'd seen a bottle of gin had been last night, when she'd fallen asleep on the settee, but when she'd woken up, it had disappeared. She wonders if Lucy had found it, or if Johanna had disposed of it before her mother had the chance.

Johanna wanders into the kitchen after her, looking amused to find her aunt standing on her tip toes, trying desperately to reach an unopened bottle of gin in one of the upper cabinets. "What are you doing?" She asks, laughing. "I put the bottle from last night behind the books in the parlor, so mother wouldn't find it. Use that one before you open a new one."

Waving her away, Eleanor drags a rickety wooden stool with her to the cabinet and stands on it, finally reaching the bottle. "I 'ave a feelin' your father could use a full bottle, love." Grasping the gin in one hand and carefully hopping from the stool, Nellie huffs a stray curl from her face and eyes Johanna knowingly. "You want to take it up to 'im?"

Johanna's eyes light up for a moment, and then she frowns, staring down at the floor. "I don't think I should. Maybe he doesn't want to be disturbed." She bites her lip, sparing a nervous glance at Nellie. "Besides...what would I say?"

It pains Eleanor that the girl is so unsure around her own father - no matter how quiet, how different he seems. If only Johanna could see the man he used to be. If she could see herself lifted onto her father's shoulders to walk through the park, see the two of them lying on the floor in the parlor, Johanna fast asleep on Benjamin's chest as they waited for Nellie's cookies to finish baking, then Johanna would never be so hesitant.

She musters a smile and says, "You say, 'ere's your gin father, and would you mind comin' downstairs next time so my poor Auntie Nell doesn't 'ave to march all the way up 'ere ten times a day just to look after you? She's not as sprightly as she used to be."

Johanna giggles, watching Nellie wave the bottle of gin at her enticingly. "I'll take it up, but you'll have to forgive me if I decide not to deliver your message."

Eleanor sighs, tossing her the bottle. "You want somethin' done, you 'ave to do it yourself, I s'pose."

Smiling anxiously, Johanna clutches the bottle tightly in her hand and starts for the kitchen door, only to be startled into backing away when the door opens and Lucy walks in, home from the little dress shop where she works.

Lucy smiles at her daughter as she removes the shawl from around her arms but her blue eyes eventually land on the bottle of gin in Johanna's hand and her smile disappears. Lucy turns to Eleanor, eyes accusing. "What have I told you about giving my daughter gin, Eleanor? Honestly, it isn't a difficult rule to follow. I ask so little of you when it comes to looking after her - "

"Mother," Johanna interrupts, frowning and Nellie watches her eyes darken and her cheeks turn pink. "Auntie Nell didn't give me any gin - it's not for me. You always assume the worst when it comes to her."

Lucy busies herself with smoothing blonde hair from her eyes, looking harried. "Well what was I suppose to think, Johanna, seeing you standing in the middle of the room with a bottle? It's a perfectly understandable conclusion." She sighs tiredly. "Must you be so confrontational?"

Realizing where this is going, having been witness to it many times before, Nellie squashes the urge to groan aloud. The two of them are always bickering these days, small arguments turning into full scale battles as time goes on. Things would be so much easier if Lucy would just let Johanna grow up and make her own choices instead of trying to make them for her. Sensing Johanna is about to begin a heated debate with her mother over a misunderstanding, Eleanor interrupts quickly with a glance at Lucy, "No need to get in a tiff, now. The gin is for your 'usband. 'e asked for it."

Lucy looks surprised that Mr. Todd asked for anything but she throws Nellie a grateful look for breaking up what was sure to have been another disagreement between mother and teenage daughter. "Oh, I'm sorry, Eleanor." Lucy smiles apologetically and reaches for the bottle Johanna clutches tightly. When Eleanor nods encouragingly, Johanna relinquishes her hold, jaw tight as she watches her mother set the bottle firmly on the counter. "But I won't have him drinking either. Alcohol never did anyone a bit of good."

Eleanor stares, wondering not for the first time at the naiveté of her tenant. She imagines a bottle of gin would do Mr. Todd quite a bit of good, what with all those ghosts she can see swimming in his eyes. It might even help him get a decent night's sleep - she isn't deaf to the sound of his pacing at all hours of the night. Instead of saying any of this, she merely offers the blonde a tight smile and keeps quiet.

"Thank you for looking after him, Eleanor," Lucy pauses in the doorway. "I'll take over from here. I'm upstairs should you need anything." She smiles tentatively at her daughter but Johanna stares at the floor. "Goodnight, darling."

Johanna nods, her voice tight, "Goodnight, mother."

When the door closes behind Lucy, Nellie turns to Johanna and sighs. "That wasn't necessary, love."

Chin jutted out stubbornly, Johanna says, "Yes it was. She's always blaming you for things I do, as if I'm a child and can't think for myself. If she wants to be angry with someone, she should be angry with me. Just because you offer gin doesn't mean I have to take it." She scowls. "And she just made a decision for my father as well. What business is it of hers if he wants gin? He's a grown man, for heaven's sake."

Deciding the girl has a point, Eleanor approaches Johanna and places an arm around her shoulders, tugging her into an embrace. "Well the next time you feel like fightin' with your mother, don't argue about me," she laughs, bringing one hand up to fiddle with Johanna's blonde hair. "Makes a lady bloody uncomfortable."

Johanna hides a smile in Nellie's shoulder, cheeks pink with her chagrin. "Sorry, Auntie Nell."

Pulling back to scrutinize her expression, Eleanor shakes her head. "I'm sorry too, dear. I know you wanted a chance to speak with your father."

Shrugging, Johanna pulls away. "It probably would have been awkward, anyway."

"You underestimate your charm, love," Eleanor winks. " 'e would 'ave been wrapped around your finger in two shakes."

Johanna laughs, looping her arm through Nellie's as they walk together back into the pie shop to finishing cleaning up. "You have a biased opinion. You can't be trusted when it comes to me."

"Of course I'm biased," Nellie picks up a damp rag and tosses it at the blonde, grinning when Johanna fumbles to catch it before it hits the floor. "If anyone 'as a right to be biased about your perfection, it's me."

Johanna only smiles, and together, they wipe down tables and dim the lights, each trying her best not to think of the couple upstairs.

--

With only enough money to afford meat for a small portion of every month, the pie shop is closed the following morning and Nellie plans on doing nothing more strenuous with her day than turning a page in a book. When Lucy leaves for the dressmaker's shop after a small breakfast, the air between the three of them still tense with the disagreement of the evening before, Nellie retires with Johanna to the parlor.

The sight of Sweeney Todd sitting in her armchair, staring into the fire, is a sight astonishing enough to send her jumping back with a quiet gasp. He doesn't seem to notice their presence and they halt in the doorway, wide-eyed. Johanna clutches at Eleanor's arm, unmoving, while Eleanor stares at him breathlessly. It's one thing to see the man upstairs in a darkened room, or enveloped in shadow in her doorway, but another thing entirely to observe him in the middle of the day, before a roaring fire with his guard down. If he'd been beautiful before, he's exquisite now - a grim statue carved from cold marble.

Johanna looks to Nellie, eyes beseeching. Tearing her gaze from the man in front of them, Eleanor nudges Johanna's arm, jerking her head in Mr. Todd's direction. It's _her_ father after all, she should make the first move. Shaking her head frantically, Johanna waves her arms in front of her and begins to back away hastily, refusing to confront Mr. Todd alone. Eleanor nearly stamps her foot in petulance, outraged that Johanna would leave her to enter the room by herself.

However, Johanna isn't looking where she's going and in her haste to get out of the room, she trips backwards into the wall and smacks her head against a portrait, sending it crashing noisily to the floor. The women wince at the great clamor and Mr. Todd turns his head to look at them, his stoic expression giving away none of his surprise.

Sending Johanna a withering look, Eleanor turns to Mr. Todd with a smile. "Mr. Todd, what a nice surprise, dear." She hears Johanna behind her fumbling with the portrait, but she can't bring herself to look away from Mr. Todd as he furrows his brow. Eleanor remembers asking him to think about coming downstairs, remembers him nodding but she hadn't actually thought he'd been listening to her.

He doesn't shy away from her gaze, only returns it blankly and she calls to Johanna without turning her head. "Johanna, don't worry about the picture. Let's sit, love."

She can practically hear the smile in Johanna voice as she says, "Of course."

Nellie shakes her head. Only Johanna would be amused by this rather than mortified. Under Mr. Todd's gaze, they retreat to the settee and arrange themselves on the cushions. The only sound is the crackling of the fire in the hearth, and unaccustomed to the silence, Eleanor suddenly feels at a loss, palms sweaty and lungs incapable of drawing in quite enough air. Glancing around the parlor and absently fiddling with her skirts, Nellie cannot think of a thing to say.

Mr. Todd has returned his attention to the fire, and for a moment, she watches the flames reflected in his dark eyes, her mouth dry. When the silence becomes too unbearable for her, she finds Johanna's eyes, and the girl gives her a desperate look, begging her to speak. Nellie frowns at her and fumbles for something to say.

"I'm terribly sorry about last night, dear," she says airily. "Lucy came in just as I was 'eadin' upstairs with your gin and she's not particularly keen on using alcohol for anything other than cuts and scrapes." She watches in fascination as the corner of his mouth twitches, as though he wants to smile but can't quite remember how it's done.

Johanna stands abruptly, leaving the two adults to stare at her. "Why don't I fetch us some now?"

"Smashing idea, love," Eleanor beams at her. Such quick thinking - alcohol will liven up the dullest of parties. She turns to Mr. Todd in hopes of his agreement and finds herself transfixed by the pained way his eyes follow Johanna's every move until he can't see her anymore, as though trying to absorb everything about her - the way the light hits her yellow hair and turns it brilliant gold, the way her delicate hands absently brush her skirts, the perfect posture Lucy had instilled in the girl at a very young age. Mr. Todd is drinking in his daughter as though he'll never see her again. When Johanna disappears into the next room, Nellie tilts her head to scrutinize him silently.

"S'not, easy, is it?" She asks with quiet pity. "Bein' 'ome again?"

He shifts dark eyes to her, regarding her strangely. He looks almost startled, and she doubts he can even recall the last time anyone felt sympathy for him. Just as she is about to apologize for being her nosy self, he surprises her by shaking his head once. "Everything is...different."

"I imagine," she murmurs, studying the pained look in his black eyes. "You'll get the 'ang of it, love. It'll just take time."

Their conversation sounds oddly familiar to her ears, and the sense of deja vu is unsettling until she remembers the reason behind it. It nearly sends her tumbling backward sixteen years, smiling at Benjamin Barker from across the counter in the pie shop as he'd lamented on how different marriage was than what he'd thought. Will she never stop comforting this man, ever stop consoling him about that hopelessly naive wife of his?

At the moment Eleanor realizes she's staring at him, Johanna returns with a bottle of gin tucked neatly under her arm and balancing three full glasses. Her eyes slide shyly over to her father as she hands him his drink. "Is that enough?"

Mr. Todd nods, clearing his throat and shifting uneasily. "Yes, thank you."

Taking her spot on the settee beside Nellie, Johanna hands her a glass and Nellie takes a sip. Swallowing, she glances at Mr. Todd. "This is a bit of a secret of ours, Mr. Todd. Won't tell Lucy about our li'tle foray into the good swill, I 'ope?"

Johanna watches her father with hopeful eyes, not daring to touch her drink until she knows whether her father will inform Lucy of her occasional glass of gin. "It's not all the time," she reasons quietly. "But really I'm quite old enough to decide whether I want a drink."

Eleanor hides a smile behind her glass at the defiant tilt to Johanna's head. Mr. Todd stares at his daughter a moment, his expression giving away nothing but Eleanor can see the pride in his gaze, blatantly obvious beneath the sorrow always lurking just under the surface. She places a hand on Johanna's arm and says softly, "Go on, love. 'e won't tell."

While Mr. Todd's stay downstairs had not lasted long, he'd lingered over the shared bottle of gin with them, though he didn't say much. Eleanor had never seen Johanna quite so awkward, as though every confidence she has tried so hard to instill in the girl had suddenly been washed away, leaving nothing but an unsure, frightened child. Even now, as they labor together in the kitchen to prepare dinner in time for Lucy's arrival home, Eleanor can sense Johanna's deep disappointment that this afternoon hadn't gone the way she'd hoped it would.

Ever since Johanna was a child, Eleanor has always made it known to the girl that life is not fair, that sometimes things will not go the way she wants them to but it certainly doesn't mean that she should give up, or stop trying. Life - real life - is all about trying; an earnest quest for love, acceptance, and answers. It seems as though Eleanor hasn't yet learned her own lesson, because the only thing she can think about as Johanna slices up onions for the soubise sauce, is that she must get the girl to connect with the father she's so longed for.

Nellie is in middle of examining the mutton they'd purchased at the market, eyeing the scrawny bit of flesh on the bones and wondering if it had been such a good deal after all when Lucy sails through the door tugging at her bonnet. "Hello darling," she smiles at Johanna, who looks up from stirring the sauce.

Giving her mother the brightest smile she can muster, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes, Johanna says, "How was work, mother? Is Mrs. Crichlow feeling better?"

Lucy's smile falters at Johanna's tone, a polite voice reserved for brief acquaintances at parties - the voice Johanna uses when she doesn't quite feel up to arguing with her mother. Walking over to her daughter and tucking a piece of Johanna's blonde hair behind her ear, Lucy places a kiss on her forehead. "She's much better and I'm sure she would be delighted to know that you asked about her."

"Johanna, love," Nellie says, still frowning at the mutton balefully. "Would you fetch that tray from the bakehouse?"

Johanna nods. "You'll have to stir the sauce, it's - "

"Too thick," Nellie sighs. "Yes, of course it is. It always ends up that way; I don't know what the bloody 'ell I'm doin' wrong."

"We'll get it right one day," Johanna laughs, hurrying toward the door.

When she's gone, Lucy sighs quietly, watching Eleanor stir the soubise and it says quite a lot that she doesn't bother scolding Eleanor for cursing. "I just don't know what to do with her, Eleanor. She's growing up."

"Of course she is, dear," Eleanor murmurs, bringing the spoon from the pot and sliding her finger along the edge of it to taste the sauce. "You just need to grow up with 'er, is all. Tryin' to keep 'er your li'tle girl forever isn't makin' 'er too fond of you at the moment."

"I just want her to stay young as long as she possibly can," Lucy reasons, fiddling with her bonnet. "Life can be so cruel - I want to protect her from it as long as I can."

Deciding the sauce definitely needs a bit more spice, Nellie turns to rummage through the cupboards. "You can't protect 'er from life without keepin' 'er from livin' it." Eleanor nearly sighs; she can't begin to count the number of times they've had this discussion about Johanna, and it always ends with Lucy thinking she's doing what's best for the girl. "As much as I'd love to continue this, dear, I've got somethin' else to speak with you about."

Laying her pretty white bonnet aside, Lucy smooths her hair and glances quickly up at the ceiling. "Can this wait, Eleanor? Benjamin is - "

"Actually, I want to talk about Mr. Todd," Eleanor interrupts, watching Lucy's blue eyes narrow at the use of his new name. She hasn't taken to it the way Eleanor has, refusing to call him anything other than Benjamin and Nellie wonders when she'll realize that man isn't the same one lurking upstairs. "Johanna 'asn't really 'ad the chance to speak with 'im much since 'e's returned and you know 'ow much she's always talked about 'er father."

Lucy nods, glancing away. "She was always asking me for stories about him. I could hardly ever bring myself to tell her."

Eleanor doesn't bother to mention that even if Lucy hadn't wanted to speak of him, Johanna had learned enough about her father from her aunt - when the girl wasn't making her read Shakespeare, the handsome young Mr. Barker had featured in nearly all of Johanna's childhood bedtime stories. "I think it might be a nice idea to get them alone, eh? What do you think 'e'd say to a walk with Johanna after dinner?"

Pursing her lips, somehow managing to look just as lovely with her brow furrowed like that, Lucy says, "I don't know. I suppose I could ask him." She smiles. "That's a wonderful idea, Eleanor. It might be just the thing he needs to bring him out of this...mood."

Turning from Lucy before the blonde sees her raised eyebrow, Eleanor ponders whether or not unjust exile and fifteen years away from one's family qualifies as a _mood_. When Lucy disappears through the doorway, Nellie listens with satisfaction to her light footsteps on the stairs. She suddenly thinks of Lucy's soft nature against the much more stubborn will of the former Mr. Barker and doubts whether gentle suggestion will be enough to get him on a walk around London after dark.

Johanna wanders back into the kitchen, breathless from sprinting up the bakehouse steps. "Got the pan, Auntie Nell."

"Lovely," Eleanor turns to face her with a smile. "Now, stir this sauce. I'll be back in a tick."

Curiosity will surely get her in a world of trouble someday, but Eleanor can't keep herself from mounting the steps to the upper floor. While she doesn't try to mask the sound of her footsteps, her steps are considerably lighter in hopes of catching a snatch of conversation before she interrupts. The muffled sound of their voices becomes clearer the further she climbs, and by the time she reaches the landing at the top of the stairs, Lucy's voice is unmistakable through the open door of their apartment. She hears Mr. Todd's soft, sullen murmur and creeps closer to the door, her stomach turning over on itself.

The mere sound of his voice makes her breath catch, and she's never been so frustrated with herself. Hasn't fifteen years been long enough to drain her of her love for Benjamin Barker? Will the feeling sickness when he smiles at Lucy ever truly go away or will the jealousy always be there, a scar serving as a constant reminder of the love that was never hers? It seems that no matter how he looks, dresses or acts - whether he's the sweet barber of the past or the brooding man just on the other side of the door - her heart will always flutter at the slightest thought of him.

The harsh sound of Mr. Todd's voice snaps Eleanor back to the present, and she listens intently to his whispered, "I don't know anything about her."

"But you could learn Benjamin," comes Lucy quiet voice. "That's all Johanna really wants - to know you and for you to know her."

Mr. Todd doesn't seem to be listening to his wife because as Nellie peers around the doorframe, she finds him sitting on the sofa, eyes fixated on the floor even as Lucy stands in front of him. The words he says next almost seem to be directed solely at himself, because Eleanor has to strain her ears and lean into the doorway to catch them. "Her favorite color, what she reads, her first word, her laugh...I don't know any of it."

He sounds guilty, as though it had been his fault he'd been taken away. Eleanor looks to Lucy, watching the blonde stare at her husband, mouth slightly agape. She doesn't look as if she's going to be speaking any time soon, and while Eleanor prides herself on being a patient woman, she doesn't have the stamina to wait for the conversation to gain momentum again. Stepping inside the doorway and clearing her throat to garner the attention of the couple in the room, she directs her gaze to Sweeney Todd and says plainly, "Blue."

He stares at her, looking lost.

"Eleanor," Lucy says with a strained, gentle smile as she takes a step forward. "Could you give us a moment?"

Ignoring her, Eleanor continues to eye Mr. Todd. "Johanna's favorite color. It's blue." She gives him a thin smile. "She'll read anythin' you put in front of 'er but right now she's rather fond of the penny dreadful The Mysteries of the Court of London. And she's read Wuthering Heights so often the poor, battered thing is nearly in tatters."

By this time, Mr. Todd has straightened in his seat, unfathomable eyes pinning Nellie in place with their wide-eyed gaze. It's enough to make her breath hitch but she refuses to lose concentration or look away, knowing Johanna's happiness depends upon his answer. Next to him, Lucy bites down on her bottom lip, hopeful.

Certain she has his attention, Eleanor continues thoughtfully, "I believe 'er first word was 'stop'. I was pickin' up 'er dolly to put away and apparently it didn't sit too well with her." She raises an eyebrow. "An' if you want to know what 'er laugh sounds like, I suggest you take your daughter out for a walk, Mr. Todd, and brush up on your jokes. Aren't exactly a comedian, love."

Mr. Todd blinks, regarding her as though he's only just noticed her presence as something other than the landlady and the woman who peers in at him while his wife is at work. Swallowing thickly, he nods once and says hoarsely, "Alright."

--

London at twilight isn't much different than it is during the day - every building and street corner covered in a thin film of soot and misery. The only difference is the types of people lurking about. The men and women hocking their wares on the pavement have all given up for the day, packing up their things to begin again with the light of day. Normal, decent people have all scurried off to their homes to sit before their fires with a glass of brandy. London, Sweeney Todd knows, is not exactly brimming with decent people. The streets are still bustling with carriages rattling across cobbled lanes, a group of harlots are gathered at the end of the street under a gas light, cooing at a drunken man from the tavern across the lane stumbling his way home.

It's completely absurd to be walking about in the evening, suicidal almost. Sweeney Todd can't help but wonder why he'd agree to take his daughter for a walk that very night instead of insisting that they take a stroll in the early morning when the dangers to Johanna were much less apparent. Then he remembers the look in Mrs. Lovett's eyes - eyes that seemed all at once harsher than the most depraved of convicts, and yet as understanding as a mother's. Eyes that looked as if they were silently daring him to refuse. And staring into them, he'd found that he couldn't.

As they pass a beggar lingering in the doorway of a dinner house, Johanna's hold on his arm tightens and Sweeney glances down at his daughter. She's completely perfect, not one flaw in her lovely features. She's the very picture of her mother, all delicate grace and charming smiles. Johanna exudes that inner glow that he's only ever seen radiate from Lucy. And yet, there's something else in his daughter, some fierce trait that belongs neither to Lucy or himself. The same trait that makes her defy her mother's wishes, the same trait that gave her that defiant tilt of the head whenever she thinks someone might be challenging her.

Lucy has never been so confrontational, so willing to be opposed. When he'd been sent away, Lucy had been the most gentle of creatures and she remains so even now. No matter how exhausting her day has been, she always returns home in the evenings with a tired smile, one he tries his best to reciprocate, no matter how difficult it is.

But now, Lucy is more timid than he remembers. She'd never been shy about her affections, taking his hand for no reason other than to feel his fingers laced in hers, fiddling with his hair as they lay in bed together. Now, she can only be described as skittish when in his company, rattled and tense just sitting next to him. She hasn't touched him since the day of his return, except for the occasional brush of her hand against his arm. Sweeney scowls, fists clenching as he remembers his lack of control when her lips touched his. He'll never forgive himself for being so careless with her. Lucy is entirely too delicate, too pure to be treated with such abandon.

He feels as though he's walking on eggshells around his own wife, never sure what the right thing is to say, when he should speak up or when the proper time is to be silent. When she comes home from another tedious day of dressmaking, he feels as though he should do something - wrap his arms around her, take her hand, anything. But he never does. Benjamin used to wrap an arm around his wife's slender waist, cup her radiant face in his hands just to stare into her eyes. Now, he finds that he just..._can't_ anymore. He doesn't remember how, and he isn't entirely sure he wants to. That had been Benjamin Barker, and that man is dead.

How foolish he'd been, thinking he could just come home and pick up his life where he'd left off. Things are turning out to be much more complicated, more complex, than he'd ever imagined. Lucy has become more independent; she's made a life for herself and their daughter. He doesn't know the first thing about his daughter, his little girl who has grown up entirely without his presence in her life.

At the thought of his daughter, he chances another look at her out of the corner of his eye and sees her distrustfully eyeing a chimneysweep across the lane, leaning against a fence post with his cap lowered. They haven't spoken much and he wonders briefly if she feels as nervous as he does. After everything he has lived through, to be so anxious in the company of a young woman, his daughter, seems ridiculous.

He feels as though they should discuss something before they return to Fleet Street and have to face Mrs. Lovett's strangely compelling eyes, but he hasn't had to engage in small talk in a very long time and he's quite at a loss for how to go about it. Thinking again of the reason he's strolling pleasantly along the streets of London as the sun sets, Sweeney frowns. Johanna seems to be very close to their landlady - the two hardly ever stop talking when they're together and he often hears them whispering and giggling together long after Lucy has gone to bed. If he didn't know any better he might have thought Mrs. Lovett had raised Johanna rather than Lucy.

Turning his head to look down at his daughter, Sweeney finds Johanna biting her lip, eyes darting nervously about them. She seems just as pained by the prolonged silence, but she doesn't look as if she's about to do anything to correct it. Swallowing uncomfortably, he rasps, "You seem quite fond of Mrs. Lovett."

It isn't the most eloquent or profound way to start a conversation, but the mention of the pie maker brings a brilliant smile to Johanna's delicate face as she turns to look at him. "Oh, yes," she says, sounding relieved to be speaking. "Auntie Nell is my only friend, she has been for almost as long as I can remember."

They pause at a street corner to wait for a passing carriage before crossing the lane to walk on the other side. "You have others to talk with, surely," he says. "Girls your age."

Johanna shakes her head, pushing back blonde hair when a chilly wind blows it around her face. "Not really. I don't go to school, Auntie Nell tutors me. So I don't get to meet a lot of girls and the ones I do know, I find rather tedious." She frowns. "I never did get along well with people my own age."

Sweeney can understand not getting along with people - he doubts he'll ever find someone he's completely comfortable with. As Benjamin he'd been too shy and gentlemanly, and now he finds that his mind no longer understands common things like conversation or pleasantries. He clears his throat. "You have your mother, then."

He watches as Johanna's face changes in an instant, that animated glow when she talked of the pie maker hardening into something more defensive and cautious. "Mother and I disagree quite often," she says simply. Sweeney furrows his brow at his daughter, and she smiles gently at his confusion. "I'm more of Auntie Nell's mind, that one shouldn't smother their children, but let them discover the truth, explore, question things." Johanna shakes her head, looking mildly amused. "Mother and Auntie Nell have clashed over the years when it comes to my upbringing. They have very different ideas concerning me."

Lucy may not be as open-minded as Mrs. Lovett but Sweeney is certain she only wants the best for their daughter and that's all that matters to him. He isn't sure he's entirely comfortable with Mrs. Lovett's way of handling Johanna, though it does seem to explain the independent streak he can see so prominently in her.

When they reach Hyde Park, both of them peering inside to gaze at the darkened trees swaying just behind the gate, they turn in a circle to make their way back to Fleet Street. Johanna's arm feels almost comfortable in his now and he doesn't feel quite so despairingly awkward in her presence. Lucy had been right, as always. Johanna had only wanted to speak with her father, whether he had much to offer to their conversation or not.

As they walk meanderingly toward home, the air between them not so stifling now, Johanna sighs softly into the night. "I wasn't always so opposed to the way mother did things." She smiles. "Up until I was seven years old, I wanted nothing more than to be just like her."

Sweeney almost smiles. He can see his darling little Johanna trying to imitate her mother - emulating everything about her from the way Lucy took her tea to the way she practically floated wherever she went. It isn't difficult to see why Johanna would want to be everything her mother is. "What happened?"

Johanna's lips quirk. "Auntie Nell."

--

_As a small child, when being a proper young lady is important and Lucy Barker is her world, Johanna is puzzled by the strange landlady downstairs. She has always been friendly, always smiles at Johanna and gives her cookies. She is a constant in Johanna's life, always accompanying mother to the market when they venture out, and always in the pie shop when they stay in. _

_Mrs. Lovett is unlike any other lady Johanna knows. She does the things most women do, like wearing tightly bound corsets and playing bridge. But she doesn't seem concerned in the least with being proper, wiping her hands on her skirts, always a spot of flour on her nose. _

_Once, during a particularly rowdy night in the pie shop, Johanna had watched while Mrs. Lovett outdrank a young sailor who'd challenged her - she'd stared in disbelief from behind the counter as the sailor stumbled around, slurring and Mrs. Lovett had only patted down her hair and smirked. Proper ladies didn't have drinking contests with sailors, Johanna knew. She had asked her mother once, why Mrs. Lovett behaved the way she did, and her mother had simply replied that they owed Mrs. Lovett a lot, and what she did was her own business. Even at such a young age, Johanna could hear the disapproval in her mother's tone. For a long time, this made Johanna want to stay away from such uncouth behavior, as though it might be contracted like the plague. But as she grew, Mrs. Lovett began to fascinate her._

_While her mother works, Johanna remains at home with their landlady for most of the day. If the pie shop is open, Johanna prefers to play with her dolly in the parlor, a pretty porcelain thing that her mother said was a gift from father. On one particularly rainy day, at the age of seven, the pie shop is closed and Johanna cannot find the entertainment in books and dolls that she usually does. Faintly, she can hear Mrs. Lovett bustling about in the kitchen - the loud clatter of bowls and pans making the young girl frown in curiosity. _

_When she wanders into the kitchen, Mrs. Lovett looks surprised to see her, floundering for a moment before offering Johanna a little smile and sweeping a stray red curl from her forehead with a flour-covered hand. "Fancy seein' you 'ere, love."_

_Johanna peers at the flour and dough splattered on the counter, wrinkling her nose. "What are you doing?"_

"_Makin' gingerbread men, of course," Mrs. Lovett says, gesturing to the mess as if it explains everything. "Would you like to give me a 'and? You'd like it, I think."_

_Mother had explicitly told Johanna not to dirty her pretty new dress and judging by the flour coating Mrs. Lovett's corset and the dough sticking to her hands, helping would be disobeying. Johanna looks down at her pale pink skirts, mouth twisting in thought. _

_As if understanding the reason for her reluctance, Mrs. Lovett turns abruptly and whips a floral patterned apron from a hook by the kitchen door. "That should help, dear," she says, pushing it into Johanna's hands. _

_Staring at the apron, Johanna determines that it's mostly clean and begins to tie it around her waist. "Why don't you use it?" She asks quietly, blatantly staring at the white-spotted corset of the baker. _

_Mrs. Lovett laughs, startling Johanna when she lifts her to stand on a low, rickety wooden stool so she can reach the counter. "I don't 'ave pretty dresses to keep spic and span," she says dryly. _

_While they go about laying cutouts of little men on a battered pan, Mrs. Lovett shows Johanna several useful techniques and does most of the talking, flitting from one topic to the next while Johanna struggles to keep up. Her stories are amusing, and her colorful expressions leave Johanna giggling so much that she drops a doughy gingerbread man onto the floor. At first, she'd thought Mrs. Lovett might be angry at her contribution to the mess, but the redhead had only laughed and stepped over the dough, teasing Johanna about her clumsiness. _

_When the cookies are done and the sweet smell of the golden brown little men fills the room with a homey warmth, Johanna sits on her little stool, feet on the floor as she nibbles on the last bite of a crumbly leg. She's almost glad that she'd come in to see Mrs. Lovett, no matter how unladylike she might be. It feels different to eat a cookie she'd helped make, far more rewarding than merely snatching one up when they come out of the oven. _

_Swallowing her last mouthful, Johanna begins to dust the crumbs from her fingers when she spies something that makes her heart stop. There, on the sleeve of her pink frock, is a spot of flour. It isn't large, but mother's keen eye will definitely notice it. Johanna's eyes begin to fill up and she curses her own carelessness. How could she have been so silly as to come into the kitchen in her new dress? Mother will be so disappointed in her. _

_Mrs. Lovett turns when she hears a stifled sob, looking startled to see Johanna staring at her arm and crying. "What the bloody - " She stops, as if catching herself about to say one of those words mother doesn't approve of. "What's the matter, love?"_

_Johanna points wordlessly to her sleeve, tears slipping down her red cheeks. Frowning, Mrs. Lovett stoops down to have a closer look and Johanna avoids her eyes, ashamed and staring at the black lace of Mrs. Lovett's skirts. Making a noise of disgust, Mrs. Lovett sighs, "Is that all? Just a bit of flour, you silly thing. Gave me a fright, you did!"_

_Unable to imagine how Mrs. Lovett doesn't understand the seriousness of the situation, Johanna cries, "Mother's going to be upset with me!"_

_Tutting disapprovingly, Mrs. Lovett wipes at Johanna's tear-streaked cheek with a gentle hand. "Oh now, love," she soothes. "Your mummy's not as bad as all that. 'sides, look 'ere." She reaches over their heads to the counter and grabs a damp rag, swiping it quickly over Johanna's sleeve. _

_Johanna only has time to blink away tears before the flour is gone, leaving only spotless pink in its wake. She stares, stranded between relief and bewilderment. "T-thank you, Mrs. Lovett," she sniffles. _

_Mrs. Lovett only shakes her head, rising to her feet. "You and your mother," she grumbles. "So bloody dramatic." Wiping hastily at her eyes, Johanna looks up at her, watching as she picks up another cookie from the baking sheet. " 'ave another one for your trouble, love."_

_Johanna frowns at her dubiously. "Mother says I shouldn't have more than one cookie. She says it isn't ladylike."_

_Mrs. Lovett raises an eyebrow, hand on her hip. "Well mummy ain't 'ere, is she? An' I certainly won't tell."_

_Johanna eyes the cookie, then Mrs. Lovett. The little golden man does look rather tempting..."Promise?"_

"_Course," Mrs. Lovett shrugs. "Would only get myself in trouble if I did." She winks, holding out the cookie to Johanna._

_Johanna takes it, holding it in her hand for a long moment, weighing her options. With some hesitation, she bites off the head the gingerbread man and begins to chew. It's surprising, but she doesn't feel the guilt she thought she would. _

_Mrs. Lovett beams as though Johanna has just performed some extraordinary feat. "Ah, love," she sighs. "I 'ave so much to teach you."_

--

When they return to 186 Fleet Street, it looks like every candle has been doused but one on the upper floors and Sweeney knows that Lucy is up waiting for them. However, once inside, a merry fire crackling in the parlor assures him that Lucy isn't the only one awake.

Johanna smiles and leads him through the shop to the small room, and they find Mrs. Lovett curled up in an armchair, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. "Auntie Nell, you didn't need to wait up," Johanna says. "Father wouldn't have let anything happen to me." She glances back at Sweeney and the confidence in her words is so powerful that he finds himself breathless.

Mrs. Lovett sets her tea aside and stands, taking Johanna by the shoulders. "Don't be silly, love. You and I both know you can take care of yourself." She winks. "I was more worried about your poor father - thought you might talk 'im to death." Eyeing Sweeney, she says, "Looks a little worse for wear, but 'e'll live."

"Very funny," Johanna laughs, leaning in to kiss her aunt's cheek. "Goodnight. Try to get some rest."

Waving her away, Mrs. Lovett smiles, "Goodnight, my love. Sleep well."

Johanna turns to hurry off to bed, pausing only once to smile shyly at Sweeney and it isn't long before they hear her footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Lovett turns her eyes on Sweeney now, studying him with a scrutiny that makes him uncomfortable. There is something in her gaze that never ceases to make him uneasy - as though she's trying to speak to him merely by looking, and he can never quite comprehend what it is she wants to say.

"Got somethin' for you," she says lightly, but the tremble in her voice betrays her nonchalance. She begins reaching into a hidden pocket in her dress. "I took one out before Lucy took 'em to the market to hock, tryin' to make rent. Said she couldn't bear to look at 'em anymore. I-I thought you might want one, if you ever came back." She sighs, pulling her hand back out to reveal something slim and shining in her palm. "I know it's a bit soon, but I figured you might want to use it eventually. Might be good for you."

His mouth has gone dry as he stares at the object in her open hand and he knows he should say something but he can't seem to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Wordlessly, Sweeney holds out his hand and Mrs. Lovett steps forward, placing the razor in his palm, watching as he curls his fingers around it. Gripping cool silver in his hand once again, he nearly closes his eyes. It feels familiar, like an extension of himself.

_Home._ It feels like home.

Mrs. Lovett lays a hand on his arm, squeezing gently as she whispers, "Goodnight, Mr. Todd." She leaves quickly, her exit punctuated by the rustle and flurry of her skirts. Part of him is grateful that she hadn't waited for him to speak because he isn't quite sure how he would have voiced such immeasurable gratitude.

As he climbs the steps to the upper rooms, Sweeney is fully conscious of the razor growing warm in his closed fist. Slipping into the bedroom he shares with Lucy, he finds her fast asleep upon their bed, a quickly dying candle on the bedside table. He looks at her fondly, knowing she must have fallen asleep waiting for them. Her golden hair nearly glows in the dim light and she looks so angelic that it's painful to think of waking her.

Quietly making his way to his side of the bed, Sweeney settles onto the edge of the mattress and opens his hand to look down at the glimmering razor, overwhelmed once again. While he understands Lucy's need to get rid of them, he feels nothing but appreciation toward Mrs. Lovett for rescuing one of his old friends from such a melancholy fate.

He'd spent months saving up enough money to purchase them after he married Lucy, scrimping what little he could in order to afford the shimmering, resplendent objects of his desire. Lucy had never approved of spending so much money on simple tools for his trade, especially when there were much less expensive razors he could just as easily have bought. She didn't understand the way he'd fallen in love with them - the intricately carved design, the way they glimmered even when there was no light to reflect. Only Mrs. Lovett herself seemed to share his enthusiasm when he'd finally bought them, fawning over them with him in her pie shop over glasses of ale.

Running his fingers over the carefully carved grooves in the silver, Sweeney feels some measure of peace. To be reunited with them again is truly heartening. They make him feel as though he really has come home, in a way that not even his heavenly reunion with Lucy had felt. For a moment, as he examines its perfection in the candlelight, he's certain that gleaming silver winks up at him.

* * *

A/N - I owe my life, sanity and half my vocabulary to Robynne, my super fantastic friend and beta, my other half, my Gandhi, if you will. BIG thanks to her for this chapter and for listening to me complain through the whole thing, and for reading long emails about how much I suck:D And thanks to you all for your incredible reviews, you're all so amazing and I'm so glad there has been such a positive response to this story. I don't know what I'd do without you all3

Penelope - Haha, Don't worry about not reviewing the other stories, you're here now and that's all I'm worried about. But all the same, I'm glad you enjoyed them:) And yeah, I was never a huge Johanna fan, but I've grown really fond of her since I started The Shadow Proves The Sunshine, and now she's like my little creation because we don't really see a lot of her in the movie. I make her up as I go along. Haha Your English seems perfect to me, I never would have guessed that you were foreign! Thanks so much for your review!

Mrs. Todd Barker - Thanks so much! I'm glad you like Mrs. Lovett and Johanna here, I have a lot of fun with their interactions. And I have to agree with you, I'm not particularly fond of Lucy either. But I'm trying not to be biased when I write her. Haha Thanks for reviewing!

N - I'm glad you like the story, thanks for reviewing!


	4. Ever Absent, Ever Near

_Proof of Heaven_

She'd been dreaming of razors - the way they shone in strong, capable hands - when a knock on the door jerked her violently from a deep sleep. When Johanna was a small child, a knock at Nellie's bedroom door in the early morning hours usually meant a bad dream or hunger. But now, Johanna is old enough that bad dreams do not upset her the way they used to, and she's perfectly capable of making herself something to eat should she wake up hungry.

Groaning sleepily, Eleanor shifts under the covers and tries desperately to find the dream again, hoping to slip back into it. His eyes. She vaguely recalls his eyes reflected in the blade and focuses on the image, willing the dream to come back and take her away once again. Her breathing is just beginning to even out with the sleep overtaking her once more when a knock comes again, more persistent this time.

A gentle voice whispers her name through the wood and Eleanor nearly growls. Lucy Barker is not who she wants to see at this ungodly hour - she finds it best for everyone if she doesn't speak to Lucy until she's had her morning cup of tea. Closing her eyes tightly, the baker curls into a ball beneath the blankets and hopes Lucy will go away.

The door creaks open, and Lucy peers inside, pretty face illuminated by the light of the candle she holds. "Eleanor?" She asks timidly. "Are you awake?"

Nellie has never been more amazed by her own lack of good fortune and Lucy's persistence. Not bothering to sit up, she mumbles into her pillow, "Certainly am now, dear."

Lucy ventures further into the room until she's standing at Nellie's bedside, and then she sets the candle on the table. "I'm sorry to bother you so early, but I woke up suddenly with an idea and I just couldn't wait to share it with you."

Blinking up at her with sleepy eyes, Eleanor notices that Lucy is still in her dressing gown, the white robe wrapped tightly around her slender form. Her blonde hair is falling around her shoulders with an angelic sort of glow that makes Eleanor sick to her stomach. Lucy may be naive and hopelessly faint-hearted, she may long to control every aspect of the lives of her family, but what does that matter when she wakes up looking like a bloody fairy princess? Shrinking further into her pillow, Eleanor struggles to focus on Lucy's words.

"You see, on my way home yesterday, I saw a sign posted near the market about a carnival. Don't you remember taking Johanna once, years ago? She didn't want to leave the carousel." Eleanor does remember that. Johanna had clung to the wooden horse's neck, blubbering that she wanted to take it home with her. Johanna rarely threw fits but something about that carousel had sparked her inner temper. "I was thinking that it might be a wonderful idea to go again, and take Benjamin with us. He would like it, don't you think? He was always so fond of pantomimes and the circus - it's exactly the sort of thing he needs to cheer him up."

Eleanor tries to picture Sweeney Todd at a carnival, sitting on the carousel with that grim look of his and can barely contain a hysterical giggle. She turns her head into her pillow to hide her grin, hoping the candlelight isn't bright enough for Lucy to see her amusement. "Sure, dearie. Take 'im if you want." She expects Lucy to let her sleep now, but instead she settles on the edge of the bed and Eleanor opens one eye to regard her suspiciously. "Anythin' else?"

Lucy nods, pursing her lips. "Well, you see...it would appear quite scandalous for a widow and her daughter to be cavorting about London with an unmarried man." She shakes her head, face pale. "The gossip would be vicious."

Raising an eyebrow, Nellie sighs. "I'm a bit tuckered out, Lucy. You're goin' to 'ave to spell it out for me. What exactly is it that you want?"

"I want to spend time with my family," Lucy says, her voice oddly strained. "I want Benjamin to be the way he used to be. I think he needs some time alone with Johanna and I in order to be himself again." She squares her shoulders determinedly, looking down at Eleanor huddled beneath the covers. "I would like for you to come with us, just for appearances sake. It will look less conspicuous if we all go out together, and I thought perhaps you could just keep your distance so we can spend time together."

Eleanor stares. It's hard for her tired mind to comprehend - Lucy wants her to go with them to a carnival only to stand behind them while they watch a street magician pull a rabbit from his hat or while they walk arm in arm through all the vendor's booths and displays. She will be nothing more than a way to fight off the gossip mongers so the Barkers can continue with their fantasy of playing happy family. Eleanor shuts her eyes briefly, feeling the last remnants of sleep ebbing away.

"Please, Eleanor?" Lucy asks quietly. "It would mean so much to me. And to Johanna."

Of all the nerve. How _dare_ Lucy pull the Johanna card when she very well knows Nellie would do anything for that girl. She wants to say no anyway. She wants to tell Lucy to sod off and then pull the covers over her head and refuse to ever come out again.

But she won't.

She thinks of Mr. Todd and how difficult he finds it to be home again, among family that feels like strangers. Perhaps Lucy knows him better than Nellie thinks. What right does Nellie have to think she knows this man after a week? She understands him no more than she does Latin. For all she knows, this might actually work. Mr. Todd might go to the carnival with his family, rediscover the lost and scattered fragments of Benjamin Barker and never have to spend another night pacing ever again.

"I'll go if you want, dear," she breathes, though it almost pains her to agree to such a thing.

Lucy beams, her hand reaching out to squeeze Nellie's arm gently. "Thank you so much for doing this for me, Eleanor," she says giddily. "I'm so grateful."

Burrowing further into her cocoon of blankets, Eleanor doesn't bother telling Lucy that she hadn't done it for her, hadn't done it to see her smile so brilliantly or to watch her skip happily back off to bed with her husband. If it will make Sweeney Todd happy, she'll do nearly anything.

--

"Hello there! Would the pretty lady like a balloon?"

Painted grin firmly in place, the clown offers a bright red balloon to Eleanor with a gloved hand. She has always loathed clowns - overly painted faces, exaggerated facial expressions, ridiculous costumes. None of it sounds particularly menacing on its own, but all of that coupled with the melancholy look in their eyes when they aren't trying to be funny, is more than enough to unsettle Eleanor. She shakes her head quickly, backing away from the clown, tripping on her skirts and stumbling into Sweeney Todd. She catches herself by clutching at his coat and his hand automatically shoots out to steady her.

It only takes her a second to realize she's never been this close to him before. He smells like leather and the woods after a heavy rain. It's mesmerizing, and for a moment, she doesn't move. Then, she becomes horrifyingly aware of his steadying hand resting awkwardly on her waist. Shocked, Eleanor slowly glances up at him to find dark eyes staring down at her placidly, and she jerks away from him, cheeks burning. "My apologies, Mr. Todd," she mumbles, averting her eyes.

Mortified, Eleanor resists the urge to look at Lucy or Johanna, hoping they'd been too preoccupied with their surrounding to notice her embarrassing bout of clumsiness. She glances around herself, taking in the festive atmosphere. The last time she'd been to a carnival, Johanna had been four years old, and not much has changed since then. At every turn there are vendors selling food or urging passersby to play their games for "only a penny". Clowns and jugglers weave their way through the crowds, scaring children and delighting those old enough to appreciate their antics.

Just ahead of them, to the beat of a gypsy's tambourine, a bare-chested man covered with tattoos sips from a tiny vial before bringing a torch close to his mouth and exhaling in a silent scream. Flames shoot out from his mouth in a fantastic eruption, climbing several feet into the air and lighting up the delighted faces of the small crowd of young men and women gathered around, applauding.

Even Johanna seems impressed by the fire-breather, laughing and pulling her arm from her mother's to clap along with the rest of the crowd. "Did you see that, Auntie Nell?" Johanna asks, eyes sparkling.

Eleanor smiles, wanting nothing more than to join in on the merrymaking, to walk up to Johanna, take her by the arm and begin chattering away. But not tonight. This evening, she is only here for appearances sake. This is Lucy's evening with her family, and Eleanor is not to interfere. Besides, Mr. Todd deserves some time with his family without her always around, gawking at him or stealing Johanna's attention. So instead, she stays put, clenched hands behind her back, and nods.

Johanna frowns at her aunt before her eyes land on another man several yards away, head tilted back as he slowly eases a bayonet down his throat. Pointing to him frantically, eyes alight in a child-like wonder that Eleanor hopes the girl never loses, Johanna latches onto her father's arm and says, "How do they do that, fa-Mr. Todd?" She winces, knowing she'd almost called him father. In public, even Lucy is forced to call him Mr. Todd - going around calling him Benjamin Barker wouldn't bode well for anyone. Johanna looks up at him, fully ready to accept whatever explanation he offers her. "Is it a trick? Or are they really swallowing a sword? It looks rather painful, doesn't it?"

Not waiting to hear his answer, Eleanor stops in her tracks to watch until the man pulls the sword from his mouth with a flourish, giving Lucy and her family enough space to continue their little bonding excursion. It's been absolute torture trying to be a quiet spectator to their evening, considering how long it's been since they last attended a carnival. She'll have to wait until tomorrow to recount the things they've seen with Johanna and to say all the things she's bursting to say.

Deciding six feet is plenty of space between her and the Barkers, Eleanor begins a slow, lonely stroll behind them, feeling very much like an outcast child trailing after playmates. Mr. Todd looks as uncomfortable as she'd imagined he would, watching everything with a passive eye and speaking only when spoken to. His posture is tense, as though he wants to run away but knows he wouldn't get very far. She doubts he would anyway - he'd do anything for the pair of pretty blondes hanging on either of his arms.

Lucy looks as if someone had mistaken her for one of the clowns and painted that frozen smile on her face. Her smile is brilliant and never falters, but Eleanor can sense the despair underneath it as surely as she can tell when Johanna isn't being truthful. She must be quite certain by now that a trip to the carnival has not miraculously returned Benjamin Barker to her, and Eleanor wonders if she'll try something else now, or simply accept him for the way he is.

Ahead of her, the Barkers stop when a man in a dark blue cape and a top hat claiming to be a magician grabs their attention. Johanna looks enthralled when he pulls a colorful scarf from her dress sleeve, blushing like a child even as her mother pulls her away from the man and they continue on their way once again. Eleanor watches Johanna wrap the scarf around her neck, admiring the vivid colors.

They bypass the large, sideshow tent gathering a crowd far more vast than it can possible contain, advertising the Amazing Three-Legged Woman and move on to the next one just a few paces away - red, impossibly gigantic and brimming with people. Just outside the tent flap, a man in ragged clothes with a dented top hat and a battered walking stick stands, calling to onlookers. "Step right up, step right in," he calls, bowing to the crowd and somehow managing not to lose his hat. "Come inside and see the incredible, the brave Fitzwilliam Lefroy tame the fierce, man-eating lion, Cleander! All the way from Africa, ladies and gents! Only a penny's charge!"

Even from several feet behind them, Eleanor hears the enthusiasm in Johanna's voice as she turns to her mother, "Oh, can we go in? I've always wanted to see a lion!"

Lucy glances at the dirty man standing outside the tent, letting people drop their pennies into his faded top hat. "I don't know, darling. It doesn't seem - "

"Please?" Johanna asks, and she turns to her father when she sees that Lucy isn't wavering in her reluctance. "Mr. Todd will take me in if you'd rather stay out here."

Mr. Todd glances from his frowning wife to his hopeful daughter, who looks up at him through eyes too similar to his own. He stares at them both, mouth slightly agape and the poor man looks so trapped that Eleanor casts aside Lucy's rule for the time being, hurrying up to where they stand. "Oh, go on now, Lucy," she says with a smile. "The lion is in a cage, it's perfectly safe. At least 'er pop in and 'ave a look. What's a carnival for but wild animals, eh?"

Lucy's mouth tightens as though she doesn't approve of Eleanor's interruption and she turns to look at Mr. Todd once more. "Wouldn't you rather play all those games at the booths? You used to be so good at them - remember when you won Johanna that doll the last time you played?"

"We can do that after," Johanna says urgently. "Please, mother? You heard Auntie Nell - it isn't dangerous."

Sighing quietly, Lucy nods. "Alright, if you wish."

Johanna grins at Nellie, looping her arm through her father's and waits for him to escort them inside. Lucy tentatively takes Mr. Todd's other arm and they begin to amble toward the open flap of the tent, but Eleanor flounders behind them to watch. If not for Mr. Todd's perpetual frown, they might have looked like a normal family having a lovely time at the carnival and it suddenly makes her feel like such an intruder on their picture of domestic bliss that she can't stand to be near them anymore.

As they begin to walk inside the tent, Johanna stops suddenly, turning around and searching the crowd until she spots Nellie. Brow furrowed, she calls, "Auntie Nell, aren't you coming?"

Eleanor shakes her head. Appearances have been made and she can safely go home now without Lucy having to fret over gossip. She has no desire to see a lion, man-eating or not. A large bottle of gin sounds rather more enticing at the moment. "Can't take any more of this excitement, love," she smiles. "I'm off."

"Are you sure?" Johanna asks, frowning. She takes a step forward but her mother's grip on her hand prevents her from going any further. Nodding, Eleanor gives them a little wave, offering Mr. Todd her most sympathetic smile when he stares at her with something akin to envy. Johanna looks crushed. "It won't be the same without you."

The girl looks so disappointed that Eleanor almost stays. The only thing stopping her is the fact that it won't matter whether she goes in with them or not, only Mr. Todd and Lucy will have Johanna's attention through the entire show. Lucy might even suggest that Nellie sit _behind_ them. Smiling at Johanna, Nellie begins to back away, calling, "You'll 'ave a smashing time without me, I'm sure. See you at home, love."

--

Cleander the Lion turned out to be more of a mice-eater than a man-eater, but Johanna seems satisfied enough with her first glimpse of a real lion, so Sweeney can't really lament the loss of three pennies of admission. The evening had been an uncomfortable one, but successful nonetheless. He would have preferred his first real venture into London to be somewhere less populated, but going to the carnival had delighted Johanna and satisfied Lucy's curious need to get him away from Fleet Street.

As the three of them walk home that evening, the night sky full of smog rather than stars, Sweeney can't help but notice how quiet it seems without Mrs. Lovett and Johanna talking and giggling together. In fact, it has been relatively peaceful for most of the evening and Sweeney can only blame it on the strange vow of silence Mrs. Lovett seemed to have taken. He'd barely heard a word from her as they'd walked through the carnival; he'd been fully prepared to see her holding Johanna's hand and tugging her along excitedly as though they were two children in a toy store. Instead, she'd lingered behind them the entire night, always a few paces off and pretending to be completely enamored with whatever she happened to be standing near at the time - whether it be a monkey on a man's shoulder, or a drunk retching into the bushes.

Despite her unusual demeanor, Sweeney had been a little disappointed to see Mrs. Lovett take leave of their evening earlier than expected - watching her eyes widen in alarm whenever a clown approached her had been his amusement for most of the night. It certainly didn't seem fair that she should be permitted to leave that horribly overcrowded celebration and he had to remain there, dodging fire-breathers' flames and avoiding the gypsies begging for money.

He remembers that he loved carnivals as Benjamin - the convivial atmosphere had delighted him. He used to take Lucy when they were courting, riding the carousel with her and laughing at her pretty blush. But now, he finds such crowds cloying. The only reason he'd agreed to come is because Lucy had been so insistent on them doing something as a family. Her eyes had been so innocently blue as she'd pleaded with him. His desire to spend time with his family is immeasurable, but he doesn't understand why they cannot simply go for a quiet walk in the park or dine somewhere that doesn't serve meat pies.

It doesn't occur to him until halfway home that Lucy had been hoping for something particular tonight. She'd brought him to a place he used to love, when he'd been someone else, anticipating results that she had not gotten.

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye as she walks along beside him, her arm threaded through his and her blank gaze straight ahead of them. As if Mrs. Lovett's disease is catching, Lucy has been oddly quiet tonight as well. His wife has never been one for ceaseless conversation, opting to reflect quietly rather than express her every thought aloud like their landlady. But tonight, her smile has been strained, and her voice carrying a hint of dismay whenever she speaks. While Johanna seems entirely satisfied with the way the night has turned out, Sweeney knows without question that Lucy is disappointed.

_He_ has disappointed her.

The thought pains him because he has always strived to make sure Lucy is never unhappy, but he knows that what she wants is impossible for him to give. He'd gotten a sense tonight that she hadn't been content with his replies to her questions or half-hearted attempts at conversation, and he'd tried to speak up more, if only for her sake. He'd even attempted a laugh, but Lucy had looked at him through such startled eyes that he has no desire to try it again. Sweeney doesn't know how to be Benjamin anymore, and somewhere deep down - in a place so dark he doesn't want to admit it's even there - he knows that Lucy won't be satisfied until he is.

She will continue to drag him to their old haunts and call him by the name of a dead man until she sees a spark of what once was. She loves a dream. A corpse. Sweeney Todd is only the harsh man who has taken her real husband away.

The lights in the pie shop are on, and Johanna breaks free of Sweeney's arm with a smile, hurrying ahead of them to rush indoors. Lucy pauses just outside, gripping Sweeney's arm, and the shop door closes on them, cutting off Johanna's eager description of the lion tamer to Mrs. Lovett.

In the glow of the gas lights, Lucy steps away from him and wraps her shawl more snugly around herself. Tilting her head slightly, she looks up at him, blue eyes searching his face. "Tonight was lovely, Benjamin," she says with that same strained smile. "I think we should do things like this all the time, don't you?"

Sweeney briefly considers telling her that his name isn't Benjamin, but he only nods, "Of course."

Lucy's smile falters, and fingers gripping her shawl tightly, she leans up on her tiptoes and places a timid kiss to his cheek, her lips wonderfully warm against his skin Pulling back to find his expression unchanged but his eyes somewhat softer, Lucy reaches for his hand. "Things will get better," she insists quietly. "I know you'll come back to me."

The words are like a punch in the stomach and they echo in his head long after Lucy turns to go inside, heading upstairs to prepare for bed. _I know you'll come back to me. _He already is back - he has returned to her after fifteen years of wrongful imprisonment, but she's still waiting.

Having the odd sensation of walking in a fog, Sweeney steps inside the pie shop to find Mrs. Lovett alone behind the counter, muttering to herself as she shuffles things around and rearranges the pewter ale mugs. She looks up when he closes the door behind him, her expression softening when she sees his hollow eyes. "Clowns give you a fright too, Mr. Todd?" She asks with a wry smile.

Sweeney shakes his head wordlessly, not quite sure what to do. He isn't ready to trudge upstairs and face Lucy, not with her disheartening words still rattling around in his skull, but Johanna has gone off to bed and the only person for company is Mrs. Lovett.

"I know what you need," she says, waving at him to take a seat. "Sit yourself down, love. I'll fix you right up." Sweeney stares as she fiddles around behind the counter before bringing out a full bottle of gin and a small glass. She makes her way to his table in a quick flurry that would be impossible for anyone else in such heavy skirts, and places the items down with a careless rattle. "That should take care of it. Already 'ad a shot or two myself."

Gin seems to be Mrs. Lovett's answer to every problem but at the moment, he can't find fault with her logic. Sweeney looks up at her, watching as she huffs at a red tendril hanging in front of her eyes. "Thank you," he says softly, glancing away.

"Least I could do, Mr. Todd," she says with a shrug and a sly wink. "I wasn't the one who 'ad to watch Fitzwilliam Lefroy 'ide from a pussy cat."

She leaves him then and he listens to her retreating footsteps as she wanders into the parlor and down the hallway to her own bedroom. Sweeney remains in the pie shop long after the last candle has flickered out, not climbing into bed beside Lucy until the first rays of the morning sun begin to peek out from the gloomy London skyline.

--

The kitchen floor is filthy. Nellie genuinely can't remember the last time she gave it a good scrubbing. Spots of dirt, flour and Lord only knows what else coats the floor, and she stands in the middle of the room, surveying the damage. She always makes sure the dining area is spic and span for her customers because cleanliness is good for business, but when it comes to her own kitchen, she's become rather negligent.

It isn't that she doesn't like to keep her kitchen area clean, but every time she actually goes to do something about the mess, she always gets distracted. There is always something else to be doing - either more pressing matters to attend to, or merely something more entertaining than being on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. In any case, she finds that she works better when things are scattered about haphazardly, she can find things more easily than if they were all arranged to perfection and placed neatly in cupboards.

However, the kitchen has reached a point of clutter that even Nellie Lovett cannot ignore, and so with a bucket of soapy water and a brush for scrubbing, she sets to work. She's in the middle of scratching at a stubborn patch of hardened flour when she hears dainty footsteps on the stairs and Lucy calls her name.

Eleanor sighs as the kitchen door opens and she raises her head just enough to see the hem of Lucy's gown and blue slippers peeking out from underneath. Now she remembers why the kitchen is so filthy - every time she goes to do anything, someone needs her for something. It's a bloody wonder she gets time to dress every morning - she should look at it as a blessing that she isn't forced to make pies and serve customers in her bloomers. Averting her eyes from the hem of Lucy's dress and shifting her position on the floor, muttering about her knees and old age, Eleanor dips her brush in the bucket again and begins anew.

For a moment, Lucy doesn't say anything at all, standing next to Nellie and watching her clean the floor. She clears her throat softly and says, "Eleanor, do you recall the moment I decided to sell Benjamin's razors? When I just couldn't bear looking at them any longer, couldn't sleep at night knowing they were in his shop and he would never touch them again?"

Not quite sure what sort of response Lucy is looking for but knowing she must have found out about Mr. Todd's razor, Nellie stops with a huff and squints up at Lucy. "I do recall somethin' of the sort, dear."

Lucy purses her lips, glancing away. "So I haven't lost my mind? It did happen?"

Rolling her eyes but used to Lucy's flair for the dramatic, Nellie says, "No quite sure of the state of your mind, but yes, it 'appened." She hopes this will be a quick scolding. Nellie isn't in the mood to argue with Lucy while on her hands and knees, her skirts damp and her fingers beginning to prune.

Lucy crosses her arms over her chest and says quietly, "Imagine my surprise when I walked upstairs to find Benjamin sitting by the window, holding a razor identical to the ones I thought I had gotten rid of several years ago."

"Well, ain't that somethin'," Nellie mutters absently, continuing to scrub a spot on the floor with more vengeance than is probably necessary.

Lucy taps her foot impatiently, and Eleanor pauses to glance at the delicate, silk slipper in front of her. "Are you honestly trying to imply that you had nothing to do with that razor finding its way to him again?"

Blowing a stray curl from her face in annoyance, Nellie straightens and drops her brush into the bucket. "I may 'ave 'ad somethin' to do with it."

Mouth in a tight line, Lucy shakes her head. "You told me you'd lost it."

Nellie offers a cheeky grin. "Found it again, dear. Quite a coincidence, ain't it?"

"This is not funny, Eleanor," Lucy says, the apples of her cheeks turning pink in her anger. "You lied to me. Those razors belonged to my husband, I had every right to decide what to do with them."

Head tilted to the side, Nellie stares at her incredulously and with some effort, gets to her feet without tripping on her own skirts. Brushing her water-logged hands against her corset carelessly, she says, "Those are 'is razors, love. Not yours. And 'e's 'ome now, so I s'pose it's a good thing I did keep one, eh?"

"Oh yes, Eleanor," Lucy scoffs. "It's wonderful that he hadn't even noticed me leaving the room because he was too busy looking at it. It's wonderful that he's been reminded of what he lost."

Quirking an eyebrow, Nellie puts a hand on her hip and drawls, "Think 'e forgot, dear?"

Lucy frowns. "I'm only saying that he shouldn't dwell on it." She sighs, glancing down at the soapy floor and then eyeing Eleanor's crinkled and wet skirts. "But that isn't the point I'm trying to make. You lied to me about what happened to that razor, Eleanor."

Nellie huffs irritably. "What are you gettin' so worked up for? It was only one bloody razor out of seven!"

"No," Lucy finally snaps, her voice raised in her exasperation. "It isn't only a razor, Eleanor! I could have gotten several more pounds if I'd had the complete set. To deliberately deprive us of money - I thought you loved Johanna and wanted the best for her. You have an awfully strange way of showing it."

If Eleanor's jaw had been physically capable of dropping off, she's certain she'd be scrambling to pick it up off the floor. Eyes wide with fury and finger jabbing angrily at Lucy, she takes a step closer and the blonde backs away warily. "I didn't deprive you of anythin', you silly nit! Johanna always 'ad somethin' to eat and a place to lay 'er pretty lit'le 'ead down every night. 'ow _dare_ you tell me I don't love that girl - I adore 'er like she was my very own daughter."

"What you did for her isn't the issue here, Eleanor," Lucy retorts. "I know all about how saintly you are; Johanna does nothing but speak of you and your brilliance even when you're not around. But you took something from us! That was money we could have used to make rent or - "

"Don't you start 'arpin' on rent money," Eleanor slams a fist on the counter, rattling the various jars littering the surface and making Lucy spring away with a start. "I let you stay 'ere even when you didn't 'ave enough to make rent! Cheapest bloody rent in all of London and you still barely manage to pay it! I even watched your lit'le girl for you while you worked without expectin' one soddin' penny in return."

She stops abruptly, breathing heavily and eyes narrowed. With Lucy's meek nature, they rarely ever get into arguments unless they're speaking of Johanna, but to argue about a hidden razor from fifteen years ago seems preposterous. Lucy is glaring at her so hatefully that it seems almost comically out of place on one usually so quiet and sweet.

Lip curled and voice lowered, Eleanor takes another step toward Lucy and whispers liltingly, "Saved your sorry excuse for a life once upon a time as well, if I remember." She moves so close to the other woman that it's impossible not to smell her vanilla perfume or see the flicker of defiance in her eyes. "I think the least you can do is allow me one bleedin' razor for all the charity I've bestowed on you over the years, _love_."

The animosity in Nellie's gaze sends Lucy stumbling backward into the wall, blue eyes bright with tears. "That was a long time ago, Eleanor."

Nodding in agreement, Nellie counters snippily, "So was this. Let it go, dear."

Lucy straightens, pushing herself away from the wall and brushing off her gown, avoiding Eleanor's hard stare. "Very well," she says stiffly. "We won't speak of it again."

Eleanor watches, hands on her hips, as Lucy flees the room, nothing but a blur of white lace and yellow hair.

--

Silver. At first glance, it doesn't seem like the most comforting of companions. It cannot offer embraces, conversation or affection. It cannot make him laugh, or ponder the complexities of the universe and its workings. However, it does lend an ear, listening whenever Sweeney has something to say and is merely content to sit in silence when he doesn't. His old friend does not judge the man he has come home as, does not look at him through disappointed eyes, as though he'll never measure up to what he once was. It is only happy to be held in his hand again, smiling contentedly in the light of a candle.

The razor is his only friend now.

Lucy has not spoken to him much since he came to bed in the early hours of the morning reeking of gin. Usually, she tries to include him in her conversations with Johanna, no matter how brief those conversations may be. This morning, she had only given him a half-hearted smile when he opened his eyes to find her tying on her bonnet. When she'd come back from her morning errands, she'd walked in to find him by the window, toying with his razor and the look on her face had been indescribable. It aches in his chest to know that he has disappointed her yet again. He doesn't know how to stop. The last thing he wants is to make Lucy unhappy in any way, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that unless he finds a way to become more gentle, more talkative, she will never be truly appeased.

Now, sitting in the living room in their small apartment, staring blankly down at the gleaming blade lying on the table in front of him, Sweeney is at a loss for what to do. There isn't much he _can_ do but try to be the man Lucy wants him to be - no matter how painful it may be for him. It seems impossible to just forget everything he has been through and go back to being the carefree young man he once was, the man who is no more than a stranger to him now. It seems ludicrous to pretend that the thought of Judge Turpin does not turn his vision red, that in the dead of night, when he cannot sleep, he doesn't long to see the blood of his tormentor spilled and staining his hands a gruesome crimson.

But if it will make Lucy happy, he will try.

And maybe, _just maybe_, there is a small chance that if he tries, he will become Benjamin Barker again. He wonders idly how long it would take for his nightmares of wrathful demons and sobs in the dark to turn into Barker's dreams of shaving monarchs or living by the sea with his wife and child. If he lives a hundred years, he doubts he'll ever be rid of the malignant hellions raging inside his head.

"_It isn't only a razor, Eleanor!"_

The sound of Lucy's voice, raised far above the gentle tone it usually carries, rouses Sweeney from his musings. Not once during their entire marriage has Sweeney ever heard Lucy raise her voice and wondering what their landlady could possibly have said to provoke her, he snatches up his razor from the table and strides out the door.

Sweeney hovers on the third step from the landing, cocks his head to the side and listens intently. They're arguing about him, or rather, the razor he holds so snugly in his palm. From the sound of it, Lucy is not happy with its reappearance. He can understand her initial irritation that Mrs. Lovett had lied to her, but hadn't she done it so he would have something to come home to? And then he remembers that Lucy had given up hope of that ever happening - she'd sold them because she had told herself he would never use them again and Mrs. Lovett had stolen one because she believed he would.

Their voices suddenly stop, though Sweeney strains to listen. He hears nothing, not even a murmur of voices. For a moment, he wonders if Mrs. Lovett had been angry enough to take a swipe at Lucy with her rolling pin and considers going to investigate when he hears Lucy's voice once more, calmer and more subdued.

Leaning against the wall in the stairwell, silver warm in his hand, Sweeney frowns deeply. Lucy's anger - so rarely seen - had taken him aback, but thinking now of the moment she walked into the room, he can recall vividly recall the look of astonishment on her face when her eyes had landed on the razor in his fist. He had thought at the time that she was regarding _him_ that way, for staring out the window again like she so disapproves of - she'd mentioned just the other night how she wished he'd find something else to occupy his time.

The sound of the pie shop door slamming closed and the frenzied rattling of the bell above it snaps Sweeney back to the present and he blinks, peering around the corner with a scowl. Had Lucy gone out? Or had that been Johanna hurrying off to the market for Mrs. Lovett? He descends the last three steps and walks into the pie shop, finding it empty.

In the kitchen, he can hear Mrs. Lovett muttering sourly to herself and slipping his razor into jacket, Sweeney pushes open the door and glances inside. She stands in the middle of the room, one hand massaging her temple as she glares at the floor, which looks suspiciously wet. As if catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eyes, Mrs. Lovett turns her glare on him. "If you're lookin' for Lucy, she just stepped out. And Johanna's down in the bake'ouse."

He watches with little interest as Mrs. Lovett reverts her attention from him, tilting her head to the side and staring at the floor again, as if it has done something she finds detestable and she cannot figure out how to punish it. Shifting uneasily in the quiet of the kitchen, he says, "I heard yelling."

Mrs. Lovett whips her head around so quickly that red curls bounce erratically around her pale face, her brown eyes wide enough to remind him of a porcelain doll. "Oh," she says finally, her voice catching. " 'eard that, did you? Well, no matter, love. Nothin' to be concerned about." She gives him an impish smile. "Got caught in a bit of a lie, is all."

For a moment, he thinks of turning around and leaving, going back upstairs to stand by the window and watch silver reflect sunlight, but Mrs. Lovett's odd reply keeps his feet rooted to the floor. "The razor?" He asks, suddenly feeling the heavy weight of it in his pocket.

Frowning, Mrs. Lovett shrugs. "Started off that way, but it got out of 'and pretty quickly. We'll be fine, though - always are."

Silence settles between them as Mrs. Lovett prods at a bucket on the floor with her boot, and Sweeney is contemplating how he should extricate himself from the situation when the bell above the pie shop door jingles merrily and a familiar, posh young voice calls out, "Hello? Mr. Todd?"

Mrs. Lovett looks at him in surprise. "I believe you 'ave a visitor, love."

--

Half an hour later, Mrs. Lovett has given Anthony Hope a pie, a mug of ale and has charmed him with a sweet smile and pretty words into scrubbing her kitchen floor. At the moment, Sweeney stands on the opposite side of the kitchen from Mrs. Lovett and his daughter, watching them watch Anthony, whispering amongst themselves.

Mrs. Lovett's grin is so devious that he wants to pull Johanna away from her, lest she catch on to the diabolical inner schemes of the baker. Sweeney's memories of the past are few and far between, but he does remember that a smile like that on Mrs. Lovett never boded well for anyone involved.

Johanna is no less cause for concern, continuously stealing bashful glances at the young man currently up to his elbows in soapy water, eyeing his locks of sandy hair as though she's never quite seen a shade to match its brilliant hue. Whenever Anthony looks up to find her staring, his ears turn red and he smiles widely, hurriedly returning his attention to the floor once again.

The entire exchange leaves Sweeney's mouth twitching with disdain.

Fists clenched at his sides and teeth tightly set, he decides that if Anthony so much as breathes in Johanna's direction once more, the boy will find himself tossed out on his head before he can blink. A sailor. A _sailor_, for God's sake. His Johanna is too beautiful, too perfect, for a sailor. She deserves a sensible young man - a banker, perhaps. A man who can recite poetry to her, but not a man who writes it. His daughter deserves far better than a starving poet. She deserves fine dresses and a library full of books, toffees and solid gold hairbrushes. Whatever her loving heart desires.

But not a _sailor_.

Mrs. Lovett clears her throat, as if she has sensed his rapidly waning patience, and Sweeney lifts his gaze to look at her. She's staring at him, smirking. "So Anthony," she says lightly, turning her eyes to the sailor. "You rescued Mr. Todd, you say?"

Anthony dunks the scrubbing brush in the bucket and leans back on his heels. "Yes, ma'am. It was early one morning, before most everyone else was awake. I was standing at the bow of the ship and spotted a dark shape floating upon the water, clinging to a crude raft." He looks between Mrs. Lovett and Johanna. "Quite starved and delirious when we pulled him aboard - he's very lucky to be alive."

A recount of his harrowing adventure upon the sea is not what Sweeney wants to hear and he stops listening as Johanna and Mrs. Lovett ply Anthony with questions, scowling at the cupboards instead. When he'd informed Anthony of where he would be staying, he hadn't actually thought the sailor would come looking for him. He will always be eternally grateful to Anthony for spotting him adrift at sea and even giving up his cabin on the ship so that Sweeney might rest and regain his health. But seeing the man kneeling on the kitchen floor, grinning so openly at Johanna, is enough to render that gratitude meaningless.

Only the sound of Johanna's sweet laugh pulls Sweeney from his contemptuous thoughts, and he turns from glaring at the cabinets to see Anthony standing up to brush off his pants with wet hands, his hair falling messily into his eyes.

At Mrs. Lovett's nod of encouragement, Johanna steps forward to smile shyly at Anthony. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

Anthony's answering smile says volumes - Johanna has him bewitched.

* * *

A/N - So, Anthony's here now. Haha See, Johanna doesn't need to be locked away for him to notice her! Firstly, mucho thanks to my amazing, oh so wise and charitable beta Robynne. She's so helpful with editing, reading my frustration-filled emails, and talking to me even when I'm sleep deprived. Go read her stuff, she's stupidly talented:D Thank you all so much for your amazing comments and encouragement, I'm so glad you're all willing to be patient while I set up this complicated plot:D Also, the title of this chapter came from a Francis Kazincy poem, 'ever absent, ever near; Still I see thee, still I hear; Yet I cannot reach thee, dear!'

Lilia-Rose - Haha, Sweeney doesn't love Nellie yet. Yet being the key word, of course. And I'm glad you like my Johanna, her character has been pretty fun to develop. Thanks for the review!

Penelope - Johanna doesn't get along well with people her own age anyway. I prefer to think that she's far too intelligent for them. They're intimidated by her brilliance, obviously. Haha I have to agree as well, Wuthering Heights is one of my favorite books. It actually might come into play later, if I include a certain plot point. I haven't decided yet:D Thanks for the review!

Mrs. Todd Barker - Well, I try to respond to every review that I can. I think if someone can take time out of their day to tell me what they think of my story, then I can find the time to say thank you:) I'm glad you like Johanna in this, I always thought she deserved a chance to be likeable. Haha And don't worry about Mr. Todd, he just needs time. Thanks so much for reviewing!


	5. Trouble Sleeping

_Proof of Heaven_

Johanna is entirely charming in the same way that most men find young women enchanting - a sweet smile, a manner of talking in that melodic voice that leaves them all enraptured and hanging on her every word - and what's more, she's entirely unaware of her own wiles. As they sit at the dinner table, listening to Anthony's tales of life on the high seas, Eleanor watches the young people carefully. Anthony, though a bit shy and bumbling, is a sweet-natured young man who would just suit Johanna.

The girl doesn't often venture outside of Fleet Street without being accompanied by someone, and there aren't many opportunities for her to meet new people. Nellie has long harbored the fear that Johanna might never find a young man who captured her fancy. Johanna has always been very critical of the opposite sex, and has never shown any inclination to even make friends with other girls her age. For as long as Nellie can remember, Johanna has been more mature than any other child - preferring to read to her dolls rather than hold tea parties with them, wanting to hold conversations with Nellie instead of gossiping about boys with girls her own age.

Eleanor has often wondered if any man would be truly worthy of Johanna's affections, or would be able to hold her attention long enough for her to become attached. However, at the moment, Eleanor doubts anyone could tear Johanna away from the sailor. Anthony is well-traveled, and Johanna, who has never been out of London, is fascinated with his descriptions of the world she has never glimpsed.

"What is Egypt like?" Johanna asks. "I've only seen pictures but it looks beautiful. I think I should like to see the Valley of the Kings most of all."

Anthony looks surprised, his brows shooting up and disappearing into the curtain of hair that never seems to stay out of his bright blue eyes. "Indeed?" He looks about the table at everyone else, as if they might not understand his surprise. Only Nellie is actually paying attention. "The Valley was the final resting place for Egyptian royalty for five hundred years. There are tombs and burial chambers everywhere." He turns his eyes back to Johanna. "Most young ladies would like to look upon the pyramids or the Sphinx."

"I am not most young ladies, sir," Johanna says, a little smile on her lips.

Smiling back, Anthony picks up his glass of milk. "Of course not, forgive me. May I ask what fascinates you about it?"

Johanna shrugs delicately, watching him take a long drink, and glances down at her own plate of food, which she has hardly touched. "I suppose for the very reason you mentioned - most people would rather see the pyramids. I've never been one for convention. I've read quite a lot about it; I'm particularly interested in the ceilings of the burial chambers - "

"The Book of the Heavens," Anthony interrupts eagerly. "Yes, they're quite exquisite."

Johanna's eyes widen, as if the prospect of having someone knowledgeable to talk to is nearly too much for her fluttering heart to bear. "You've been to the Valley of the Kings?"

When Anthony nods, Nellie quits listening, knowing the two of them are about to launch into a rather in-depth discussion about hieroglyphics and all sorts of other rubbish that she isn't the least bit interested in. Johanna has always been captivated with the world, reading about it in her books and reciting to Nellie all that she learns. Just from Johanna's studies, Nellie can list every ruler of the desert land from the last thousand years, right off the top of her head. To be perfectly honest, the thought of hearing more about Egypt and all its dynasties is enough to make Nellie lose her appetite.

Pushing her food around her plate listlessly, she glances about her, studying her dinner companions. Johanna and Anthony are oblivious to anyone else, their enthusiastic chatter filling in the otherwise strained silence. Mr. Todd has been sullen and silent throughout their meal, looking up from his plate only to glare momentarily at Anthony. Lucy hasn't been much better, still smarting from her earlier argument with Nellie. She hadn't been pleased to come home from her walk and find a new guest for dinner - though Nellie is sure Lucy is happy enough that Johanna is talking to someone other than her aunt. The blonde continues to glance up from stabbing her fork into her plate full of vegetables to cast hopeful glances at Mr. Todd, as though he will miraculously transform into Benjamin before her very eyes if she only wishes for it desperately enough.

"What is your favorite place, out of everywhere you've been?"

"Oh," Anthony laughs. "That's an easy one."

"Venice?" Johanna asks. "Peru? India?"

Anthony shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of potatoes. "All beautiful, exotic places, to be sure. But there really is no place like London. It's the only place I feel truly at home."

Nellie looks up from her plate to gape at him, and even Mr. Todd glances up in mild interest. London? There are beggars on every street corner, the river smells of something unholy, the foul stench in the streets is enough to turn the stomach, and the upper class trample regularly over the poor and downtrodden. All the places this boy has been, the wonders he's seen, and he loves _London_? "Anthony," she says with a teasing sigh. "Don't say such things - makes me think you're off your rocker. I was beginnin' to think you were a decent, sane, chap."

Anthony laughs good-naturedly, pushing away his empty plate. "I will endeavor to assure of you my sanity, ma'am, in the coming days."

It's a subtle hint, but a hint nonetheless.

He wants to come back, to be a frequent visitor.

Johanna nearly glows, but her father's scowl deepens.

--

After Anthony has gone away and Johanna can no longer stand in the doorway of the pie shop and watch his retreating figure in the glow of the gas lights, she slips into Nellie's room, the most lovesick of grins on her face. Briefly looking up from tucking garments into their proper drawers, Nellie sees Johanna's expression and arches an eyebrow.

Johanna freezes in the middle of the room, watching Nellie put a hand on her hip. "What?"

"Nothin'," the baker shrugs, returning to her task. "Just don't usually see a smile like that on anyone but a clown or a besotted poet."

Blushing, Johanna turns away, clambering onto Nellie's unmade bed. "Dinner was nice, wasn't it?"

She's being evasive, but Eleanor decides to play along anyway. "It was. Everyone seemed to like that soup you made. What was it called?"

Stretching out on the bed and raising her arms above her head lazily, Johanna says, "It doesn't have a name. I was experimenting in the kitchen earlier and that's just how it turned out. I suppose I should call it something; what do you think?"

Tucking a black corset away in her wardrobe, Eleanors frowns in thought. "I don't know. Name it after yourself; you made it, after all."

"Wouldn't that be a little vain?" Johanna asks, laughing.

"Course not. People are always namin' things after themselves." Nellie walks to the end of the bed to pick up a pair of stockings draped over the footboard. "I can't count the number of men out there named after their fathers, and if that ain't vain, I don't know what is. I see no reason why you can't name soup, love."

Johanna lets out a breathless laugh. "Who can argue with logic like that?"

"If anybody can argue with me, it's you," Eleanor snips teasingly. "You love a good argument like you love a good book, dearie."

"That is entirely untrue," Johanna says, scandalized. "What a hurtful thing to say, Auntie Nell."

It's Nellie's turn to laugh. "Johanna, my dear, you are as lovely as they come and sweeter than honey when you want to be. But you an' I both know you'd pick a fight with a _dog _if you thought it looked at you funny."

Johanna pouts, crossing her arms over her chest and staring up at the ceiling. However, she doesn't offer any protest and Nellie goes back to her work, satisfied.

The room is silent for a moment, and if Eleanor listens closely enough, she can hear the soft, indistinct murmur of Lucy's voice upstairs. "Anyway," she says a little too loudly when she hears the low grumble of Mr. Todd's voice in reply to his wife. "Anthony certainly seemed to enjoy your soup. 'ad two helpin's." She snorts. "You certainly know the way to a man's 'eart, love."

Johanna shakes her head at Nellie's persistence, crossing her legs at the ankles. "Father didn't eat much."

" 'e never does."

Johanna frowns, turning on her side to trace patterns on Nellie's sheets with her fingers. "Yes, but he seemed upset about something. Is he angry with me?"

Eleanor rolls her eyes. She doubts Mr. Todd could be angry with Johanna even if he tried with all his might - the girl is his little lamb, his darling daughter who can do no wrong. He's the same way with his wife. It frustrates Eleanor to no end. She loves Johanna like a daughter, but even _she _knows the girl has her faults. She's too stubborn, for one thing. But that may be Nellie's fault. And Lucy is far from perfect - the poor man is so oblivious to her flaws that it would be funny if it weren't so bloody sad. In any case, it's something she's noticed in her silent study of Mr. Todd.

Love blinds him.

Brushing disobedient red curls away from her face in annoyance, Nellie says, " 'e was not angry with you, love. 'e was glarin' a hole through Anthony's 'ead, is all."

Johanna sits up, brow furrowed and expression frustrated. "Why doesn't father like him? Anthony saved his life!"

"And now the boy who saved 'is life is makin' eyes at 'is daughter!" Nellie says in exasperation, and Johanna colors. "No self-respectin' father takes kindly to that, my love. 'e's doin' what comes natural and bein' protective."

Looking contemplatively at the hair pins and the bottle of gin on Nellie's bedside table, Johanna says quietly, "I never thought I would know what it feels like. To have a father, I mean. It's nice."

Smiling softly, Eleanor settles onto the edge of the bed and fiddles with the lace hem of Johanna's dress. "I remember a time when you were quite convinced you didn't 'ave a father, as though your mother merely willed you into existence."

--

_It has been raining every day for nearly two weeks. Puddles of water overran every street corner, splashes of it splattered against the windows and beat on the roof, flooded the gutters and soaked Nellie's hair whenever she needed to step outside. The sun has been completely eclipsed by the dark, foreboding rain clouds and Nellie had begun to have trouble remembering what a sunny day looked like. _

_So, on the first clear day that dries up the puddles, shines brilliantly on the shabby tables in the pie shop and puts an extra bounce in Eleanor's step, she makes Johanna put on a particularly frilly dress and drags Lucy outside with them. Both of them could use the fresh air - though for entirely different reasons. During the last two weeks indoors, Johanna has taken to hopping up and down the stairs repeatedly for hours, sometimes on one foot. Not only is the sound of her little heeled shoes clacking on wooden steps loud enough to grate on Nellie's nerves, but it makes her so anxious that the little girl will hurt herself, that she will do anything to distract her from the activity. So far, she has attempted to teach the five year old how to play hopscotch on level ground, participated in a game with dollies, discussed the tragedy of Hamlet, taught Johanna a game with cards that would horrify Lucy, and let Johanna make a rather large mess in the kitchen. If only for the sake of Eleanor's nerves, the child needs time outdoors. _

_Lucy, on the other hand, does nothing. When she returns from her long hours at the dress shop, she sits upstairs, and whenever Eleanor comes up to check on her or tell her dinner is ready, Lucy is always sitting by the window, the double frame of Benjamin and Johanna in her lap. Ever since that first month after Benjamin was taken five years ago, when Eleanor was forced to take action and pull Lucy out of her depression by threat of eviction, Lucy has been much better - in a sense. She no longer paces away half the night or sleeps on the settee. At night, she sleeps peacefully in the bedroom she once shared with her husband. In the mornings, she dresses for work. When she comes home, she eats the food Nellie gives her. When Johanna wants her hair put up in curls on top of her head to look like a ballerina, Lucy will pin it up without complaint. But she is only going through the motions, living her life without actually taking any part in it. Her every response, her every action, is mechanical and done without thought. _

_It makes Nellie want to use her rolling pin to beat something other than dough. _

_Walking beside her, Lucy is as silent and dejected as usual, blue eyes staring straight ahead of them even as little Johanna tugs impatiently on her hand. "Mummy? Mummy, yesterday I saw Katie climbing a tree and I told her you said it wasn't very ladylike, and she said her mummy told her it didn't matter as long as she didn't get her dress dirty! Is that true, mummy?" Johanna waits for a response, but when she looks up, her mother isn't paying her any mind. She frowns and tugs on Lucy's hand again. _

_Snapping to attention, Lucy looks down at her daughter, shifting the picnic basket in her other hand. "What is it, darling?"_

"_Can I climb a tree as long as I don't get my dress dirty?" Johanna asks again, nearly bouncing on her tip toes as she waits hopefully for an answer. _

_Lucy sighs, glancing away. "Of course not, Johanna. It isn't ladylike."_

_Disappointed, Johanna's shoulders slump for only a moment before she remembers that isn't ladylike either, and straightens her posture immediately. "But why?" Tilting her head to look up at her mother, Johanna finds Lucy no longer attending to her and sighs, turning to Nellie, who walks beside her. "Why isn't it proper to climb trees, Mrs. Lovett?"_

_Sidestepping a puddle in the street that hasn't quite dried up yet, Nellie looks down at the blonde little girl. "I don't know, love. Never been a proper young lady - used to climb trees all the time, I did."_

_Johanna wrinkles her nose, though whether it's out of distaste or jealousy, Nellie cannot fathom. "Why?"_

"_Because I 'ad a lot of brothers and they didn't care a whit about bein' proper either," Eleanor says, watching in amusement as Johanna avoids another puddle that seems to be more mud than water. She clutches the hem of her little pinafore away from the filth with white gloved hands. "They were quite the bad influence on my li'tle wee self."_

_The potential crisis of getting her dress dirty averted, Johanna turns her attention back to Nellie. "But why?"_

_Eleanor sighs. She supposes it's all a part of being a curious child, but the word 'why' seems permanently etched into Johanna's vocabulary. "Boys don't care for bein' proper. They're expected to be filthy all the time."_

"_Why?"_

_Huffing, Eleanor says, "Just cause. Now hush up, love." _

_They walk for a time in silence and Johanna does as asked, keeping quiet for the remainder of the walk. She skips happily beside her mother, clinging to Lucy's hand. The tall trees of Hyde Park are just coming into view above the grey buildings and smog when Johanna decides to speak again, her bright voice inquisitive. "Do I have a daddy?"_

_The words have a remarkable impact. Lucy halts immediately mid-step with a strangled gasp, her sudden stop causing her to unintentionally jerk Johanna back with her. Johanna begins to cry at Lucy's reaction, or perhaps from the shock of stumbling backward, and Eleanor whirls around to look at them both with wide eyes. _

_For a moment, Lucy does nothing but stare breathlessly at her daughter. Lucy does not talk about Benjamin, ever, but Eleanor knows without question that he is in her every waking thought. She pines for him daily, but he stays inside her head. It's no wonder at all that Johanna would question his existence. "Johanna," she begins in a thick voice. "Of course you do. I've talked about your father, and you've seen his pictures. What would make you say such a thing?"_

"_You never answer my questions about daddy," Johanna says stubbornly, crossing her arms. "And Katie says that my daddy isn't coming back, so he's not a real daddy. She says her daddy reads her bedtime stories and tucks her in!" Johanna's eyes begin to fill up again with hot tears that spill down her rosy cheeks. "I don't have a daddy. He isn't real!"_

_Johanna's little voice has raised sufficiently in volume and people are beginning to stare, stopping in the street to gawk at the spectacle. Lucy doesn't move, staring at Johanna through stricken eyes, her face pale. Not about to become entertainment for the curious, lingering bystanders, Nellie quickly grabs Johanna's hand and draws the little girl to her. _

_Stooping down to her level in the middle of the street and squinting in the harsh light of the sun, Nellie says, "Now you listen 'ere, love. Your daddy is off somewhere far away right now, but 'e loves you _very_ much. An' you best believe if 'e was 'ere, 'e'd be readin' all the bedtime stories your li'tle 'eart desires."_

_Johanna sniffs tearfully and Eleanor wants nothing more than to hang that tree-climbing nit of a child upside down by her pigtails for telling Johanna such things. _

"_Right now 'e's just bidin' 'is time, waitin' till 'e can find a boat to bring 'im back 'ere, that's all. 'e'll come back for you one day." She stops, glancing up at Lucy, who still hasn't moved. "You and your mummy. But you need to be strong and wait for 'im until then, eh?"_

_Johanna nods once, sniffling. _

_Eleanor smiles. "That's a good girl. Now, next time that lit'le demon tells you your daddy don't exist, you push 'er in the mud for me, alright?"_

_Brow crinkled, Johanna says in a watery voice, "That's not ladylike either."_

"_Neither is Katie."_

_Johanna smiles, just a little, and leans close to Eleanor. "Mrs. Lovett, when is my daddy coming home?"_

_Biting her lip, Nellie reaches up and brushes a golden curl gently from Johanna's tear-streaked face. "I don't know, love. But 'e's out there, missin' you somethin' awful."_

"_How do you know?" Johanna asks, glancing down at the filthy street and furrowing her brow with disapproval when she sees the mud coating the hem of Nellie's skirts. _

"_Cause I know your daddy, that's 'ow," Nellie laughs, glancing up at Lucy to see her the color has returned to her face, and she's frowning. Probably because she just told Johanna to push that brat of a child in the mud. _

"_Eleanor," Lucy says, eyeing the people still milling about, some still watching them cautiously. "Perhaps we should just bring Johanna home. A picnic is a silly idea, anyway. The ground is still wet."_

_Waving her away, Eleanor says, "Don't be daft. Johanna wants to go to the park, don't you love?"_

_Johanna nods miserably, wiping at her cheeks with a gloved hand. _

_Smiling brightly at the girl, Nellie straightens, standing up. "We are most certainly not goin' to let an upset like this stop us from goin' to the park on such a pretty day, are we?" Johanna shakes her head, and Nellie turns sharp eyes on Lucy, lowering her voice. "And you. Let this be a lesson to you. You can't keep sittin' in your room, starin' at those pictures like it'll make 'im come back. You 'ave a daughter who needs you to be _'ere_. Not in your own bloody 'ead."_

_Lucy stares at her, mouth tightly shut and lips pursed. Not one to back down, Eleanor stares right back, unblinking. She will not relent on this point, and she knows Lucy is fully aware of it. Locked away upstairs and brooding over pictures of a life that no longer exists is no way to raise a child. Lucy looks away first, turning to Johanna. Holding out her hand and smiling when Johanna takes it, Lucy says, "Come on, my darling. The park waits for no one." _

--

"Katie Calvert was a terrible friend," Johanna smiles fondly. "I always regretted not pushing her in the mud."

Snorting, Eleanor looks around the bedroom at all the remainder of the garments littering the floor, draped over the backs of chairs and even one hanging precariously from a light fixture. She isn't in the mood to clean. Instead, she decides to lie back on the bed next to Johanna, stretching herself out comfortably. "Next time you'll listen to me then, won't you?"

"I always listen to you," Johanna says indignantly. "At least, I do now. That has to count for something."

"If you say so, love," Nellie says, turning on her side and propping her head up in her hand to look at the younger girl. "Now, about this Anthony lad..." She smiles, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Seems to be quite the experienced - "

"Auntie Nell!"

"Traveler!" Eleanor finishes, laughing mischievously. "Experienced _traveler_."

Johanna hides her smile in a pillow, looking flustered. "Yes, I'm sure that was exactly what you were going to say."

"Your opinion of me is staggerin', love, really." Eleanor rolls her eyes. " 'e's a bit gangly, of course. Could use some meat on his bones. But I'm sure you could whip 'im into shape over time."

"I have no intention of shaping him into anything," Johanna sighs, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Eleanor studies Johanna's face critically, unable to keep the scathing cynicism out of her voice as she remarks, "So you don't find 'im at all 'andsome? That grin on your face when you talk about 'im is entirely coincidental, then?"

"Entirely," Johanna says stubbornly.

Shrugging, Eleanor continues airily, "The way 'is 'air is always in 'is eyes - you don't find that adorable? Or 'is funny li'tle way of speakin'? Nothin'?"

"No," Johanna draws out the word slowly, mockingly.

Eleanor purses her lips. "My mistake. Per'aps you won't mind if I make eyes at 'im, then? Since you don't want 'im. It's a shame to let a young bachelor go to waste. After all, a widow's options are terribly limited." She smirks. "Do you think 'e'd mind an older woman?"

Her laugh is cut off when Johanna suddenly reaches out and swipes at her in irritation, leaving Eleanor with a mouthful of pillow. Grabbing it before Johanna can hit her with it again, still giggling, she says, "You little wench! Does your mother know you hit your elders with feather pillows?"

A self-satisfied smirk on her face, Johanna sits up to perch near the edge of the mattress, looking down at her aunt. "You've certainly made your point, Auntie Nell. And I'm sure Anthony will be happy to know how enamored you are with the way his hair falls into his eyes. I shall tell him when we meet next."

Eyes wide, Eleanor uses the pillow she's still grasping to retaliate with a yell of protest, smacking Johanna across the head with the fat cushion. Not quite ready for such a blow, Johanna teeters precariously on the edge of the bed before tumbling backwards onto the floor, shrieking with laughter. Snorting, Nellie scrambles over bed sheets and pillows, peering over the edge of the bed to find Johanna sprawled on the floor, gasping for air. "You alright, love?" She asks, biting her lip in amusement. "Don't know my own strength sometimes."

The sight of Johanna in a heap of lace and blonde curls on the floor, her face red, is too much for Nellie, and she finds herself unable to hold in her laughter any longer, clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Johanna glares, clinging to what little dignity left to her. "Are you laughing at me? For all you know, I could be very seriously hurt! I could have _sprained _something!"

"By a tumble off the bed?" Eleanor laughs, pulling her hand away from her mouth. "You're more delicate than I thought, love. Just like your mother."

Johanna reacts before she can pull away, reaching out and yanking hard on Eleanor's arm, sending her over the side of the bed with a surprised yelp and a painful _thump_. She lands on the floor besides Johanna, who seems to find the whole thing simply hysterical. "Isn't funny now, is it?" She asks, giggling.

"Of course not," Nellie tries to be serious, but can't stop laughing long enough to pull it off. "Just wait until I tell your mother you shoved me off the bed. She'll ship you off to boardin' school, you cheeky trollop."

The complaint pushes Johanna over the edge, and tears begin to slide down her cheeks as she struggles in vain to catch her breath. The room is in a total disarray, the feathers from the abused pillow have spilled out and are floating around the room, coating everything in white, including the women on the floor, but neither seems to notice, too busy howling with laughter.

--

Making an effort is not always a guarantee that things will get better. In a perfect world, it would be. Trying would mean succeeding. Being an honest, hard-working family man would mean that the evils of the world could never pervade a perfect life. But as Sweeney Todd learned a very long time ago, a perfect world does not exist. Sometimes people try with all their might and still manage to fall flat on their face in abject failure. Sometimes, innocent men are taken from their families and transformed into cold, monstrous beings that cannot remember how to love.

In the last week, Sweeney has attempted to reach out; he's been eating all his meals with the rest of the family, and sitting in the parlor with Lucy, Johanna Mrs. Lovett. He has even memorized the way they occupy their time. Johanna reads, Lucy knits and Mrs. Lovett prods at the fire with a poker, looking bored and occasionally sighing and saying something to distract Johanna from her book.

He doesn't even mind it like he thought he would - being a part of a family. In fact, he's grown to enjoy being around them. He loves watching Johanna's face when she's so intent on the page before her, as though she doesn't see the little parlor, but another world entirely; a life far more adventurous than her own. The clicking of Lucy's knitting needles no longer grates on his nerves and he finds himself admiring the skill with which she can turn nothing but a lumpy ball of yarn into something useful. Sweeney has even grown accustomed to Mrs. Lovett's soft sighs of boredom, and the rhythm she taps on the floor with the toe of her boot.

He feels closer to the people in his life than he has since he returned, and it makes him almost content, to know that he is slowly adjusting to a life outside a barren, isolated island with no one but criminals for company - no matter how friendly he'd been with some of them. However, Lucy's demeanor has not changed. She does not speak to him often, and when she does, her voice is soft and restrained, as though she is continually holding back a flood of tears. Surely she notices the effort he's been putting forth in trying to make her happy, surely she sees that he's more comfortable here now than he has been since he came home?

How does he fix it? How does he makes things better between them? If Lucy would just tell him what would make her happy, he would do it. If she wants him to dress differently, he'll do it. If she wants him to laugh more often, he'll do his best. But he cannot change for her if she doesn't tell him what parts of him she is unhappy with. He wonders if she would tell him if he just blatantly asked her, and he toys briefly with the idea before casting it aside. His Lucy would never admit that she was not happy with him - she's too loving, too sweet-natured to admit to such a thing.

He's staring fixedly down at the open razor in his palm, trying to determine the best way to let Lucy know that he's trying to be better for her, when his wife walks out of their bedroom with bonnet and coin purse in hand.

"I was thinking I might walk over to the flower market," she says, adjusting her bonnet over golden curls. "Eleanor could use some color in the parlor. Would you like to come with me?"

For a moment, Sweeney can only stare at her. The flower market. Had he heard her correctly? His memories involving his life fifteen years ago are fuzzy at best, but being clubbed over the head in a flower market and dragged with brute force away from his wife and child is still quite vivid in his mind. That flower market is where his life had ended, it's the last place he spent a happy afternoon with his family. He wants to accompany her if it will make Lucy happier, but the idea of being anywhere near that place is enough to send shudders of revulsion up and down his spine.

He isn't ready for that. Maybe one day but not yet.

"Benjamin?" Lucy frowns at him. "Are you even listening to me?"

He blinks, sliding his eyes away from her pretty face framed in her white bonnet. "Of course."

Grip squeezing her small coin purse closer to her, Lucy's mouth tightens. "Then what did I just say?" His mouth has gone dry, and he cannot answer her. Lucy sighs patiently. "I asked you if you wanted to walk with me to the flower market." She moves forward, reaching out one slender hand to rest on his shoulder. "Please, Benjamin? You used to love going to the market with me."

_Ah_. Lucy hasn't spoken to him all day, and her sudden invitation makes more sense now. Just like the carnival last week, the flower market is another place he used to love when he was Benjamin. He wonders over the significance of Lucy's refusal to call him by his new name. Is it just her inability to let go, or her hope that Benjamin will reappear? Perhaps both.

Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Sweeney says, "The flower market is the last place I want to be."

Lucy's brow furrows. "Why? There's nothing wrong with a flower market. I know you aren't fond of crowds, but don't you think you should try to overcome that instead of - "

"It's where I was taken," he snaps tersely, regretting his harsh tone as soon as the words leave his mouth. Being gruff is not going to make Lucy happy, and he hates himself for letting his emotions get the best of him again.

Lucy pulls her hand from his shoulder as if burned. "Oh," she says softly, looking pained. "I'm sorry, Benjamin. I forgot."

_How could you forget?_

The words echo in his head, and he doesn't realize he's said them out loud until Lucy takes a step back, swallowing tearfully. "I really am sorry."

Guilt swimming in his eyes, knowing he has failed her yet again, Sweeney only nods and struggles to focus on something besides the lump in his throat. He finds his gaze drawn once more to his razor, and he lets his eyes linger on it, knowing at least there is one thing in this world that he cannot disappoint. Staring until the blade becomes nothing but a silver blur in his unfocused vision, Sweeney doesn't hear the door to the apartment click softly shut.

When he finally looks up, Lucy is gone.

--

It has become a tradition of sorts, in the last ten days. Nearly every night, when Lucy has fallen asleep beside him, stiff and cautious of him even as she sleeps, Sweeney slips out of bed. He walks silently through their bedroom and out into the hallway, fervently hoping Johanna sleeps just as heavily as her mother.

On the stairs, he avoids the second step down and the third one from the bottom because they creak rather noisily. At the bottom of the staircase, he creeps into the pie shop, where the curtains are drawn, and fumbles in the dark to find a light. When he can see properly, he reaches behind the counter, where he knows Mrs. Lovett keeps her supply of gin, and then picks up a small glass on his way to a table.

He's been sitting up until the wee hours of the morning every night for over a week - ever since their return from the carnival. When it's time to turn in for the night and Lucy crawls into bed beside him, he tries to sleep but finds that he can do nothing but stare at the ceiling for hours, afraid to move for fear of waking Lucy. So he finds that drinking in the pie shop is a far better method to while away the hours until morning. Besides, it's the only time he can drink alcohol. Since he eats his meals with the rest of them now, Lucy would notice if Mrs. Lovett or Johanna slipped him a glass of gin. With the rest of the house asleep, two in the morning seems the perfect time to borrow a bottle from Mrs. Lovett's endless stash.

The day had not been a pleasant one. He had been in the kitchen when Lucy had returned from the flower market. Johanna had insisted on his help with making dinner, and willing to do anything to see her smile so becomingly at him, Sweeney had agreed to stir sauce while Johanna cut up onions to drop into it. He has never cooked anything, not even when he was Benjamin and he found the action so awkward that Johanna had been forced to take over again with a gentle laugh at his expense. Too relieved to not be stirring anything, Sweeney hadn't minded.

Lucy had breezed through the kitchen door with a large bouquet of pink tulips cradled in her arms. When she spotted him standing next to Johanna, she'd quickly looked away, fastening her eyes to the floor. He couldn't help but remember all those years ago, when Lucy came home from shopping. She was always so eager to show him what she'd bought - pretty new dresses, a new set of combs, a bundle of sweet-smelling lilies. Instead, she had hurried past him to arrange the tulips in a vase, without a word to him or to Johanna. He'd hated himself then, for not controlling his temper. It's something he worries he'll never master.

Pouring a generous amount into his glass and throwing it back with practiced ease, Sweeney slams his glass on the table and doesn't think about how loud it must have been until it's too late. Before long, he hears muffled noises from the parlor and then Mrs. Lovett appears in the doorway in her dressing gown, red curls tumbling over her shoulders, and wielding a rolling pin. He vaguely wonders if she sleeps with it under her pillow.

Putting a hand to her chest and leaning wearily against the doorframe, Mrs. Lovett breathes, "Mr. Todd, you gave me a fright!"

Sweeney averts his eyes to the empty glass in front of him, scowling. "I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry for waking you, Mrs. Lovett."

Mrs. Lovett smiles at him, dropping her rolling pin to hang lazily at her side. "You didn't wake me, love. I couldn't sleep either. Want me to make you some tea?"

He shakes his head, not bothering to look up.

"Are you sure? It might 'elp you get some rest."

"The gin is fine," he says.

She nods knowingly. "Only time you get it, eh?" Shifting her bare feet, Mrs. Lovett sighs. "Since you're up, I've got a li'tle somethin' to show you."

He almost expects her to pull another razor from her dressing gown, but instead, she disappears around the doorway, and he listens intently to the rustling sounds coming from the parlor. Mrs. Lovett is obviously searching for something, and he can hear her muttering curses to herself when she has trouble finding it. It takes her several moments, but she finally returns with a large bundle and a smile.

" 'ere we are," she says brightly. "Thought you might like to see these." She drops them in front of him on the table, tapping them with her fingers when he only stares blankly. "It's Johanna's baby portraits. Went to 'ave one taken every year on 'er birthday."

Suddenly entranced, Sweeney straightens in his chair, leaning over the substantial stack of portraits. The one on top is a golden-haired child, no more than two years old, in a white frock and bonnet, clutching her dolly tightly to her. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he traces the outline of the baby's chubby cheek, noticing an odd, squeezing ache in his chest.

Mrs. Lovett smiles down at the picture. " 'er second birthday, I believe. Wouldn't put that doll down for anythin' and screamed to shake the 'eavens when I tried to take it from 'er."

Sweeney stares at the picture for a long moment, wondering over how much he has missed. If he truly began to dwell on it, he's sure he would want to pitch himself from a rooftop. Glancing up at Mrs. Lovett, who stands next to him with her arms crossed under her chest, he says hoarsely, "Thank you."

Mrs. Lovett has been too kind to him since his return; she has restored one of his beloved razors to him, pushed him into getting to know his daughter again, and now she has given him pictures of all the birthdays he has missed. "Not at all, Mr. Todd. Figured you might want a peek." She begins to back away, idly fiddling with one dark red curl. "I'll leave you to it then - "

"Stay."

The word leaves his mouth before he has time to think, with just a hint of desperation, but he's almost relieved that it had managed to escape. The longer he's here, the more tired he grows of being alone with his thoughts all the time. More often than not, he craves companionship. He may not have anything to say, but to just sit in the company of another in silence is enough to sate his need for human contact. If Lucy could only realize that while he may be a different man now, he still loves her and wants her to be happy. If only she could be happy with a different man. They could have looked through Johanna's pictures together, she could have told him the story behind each birthday picture and recalled moments from Johanna's childhood that he might want to hear. As a consolation, Mrs. Lovett seems to know just as much as a mother might, and Johanna very nearly adores the air she breathes.

Mrs. Lovett stares at him in wonder, her wide, brown eyes fixed on him. He doesn't ask again, keeping his gaze on Johanna's portrait. "Alright, Mr. Todd," she says softly. "It seems that neither of us will be sleepin' for some time, anyway. Might as well keep each other company."

He can't remember ever being more grateful to another human being as Mrs. Lovett brushes curls behind her shoulder and draws a chair back from the table. Taking a seat across from him, she takes up the gin, pouring more into his empty glass before taking a swig directly from the bottle. She watches as Sweeney flips through the next several pictures, chuckling when he comes to Johanna's fifth birthday portrait.

"That was quite the ordeal," she says. "Johanna 'ad just lost 'er front tooth the day before 'er birthday, and she downright refused to 'ave her picture taken, convinced she was some sort of bloody monstrosity." Mrs. Lovett's grin widens and she leans further across the table to get a better look at Johanna's open-mouthed grin. "Finally, when Lucy 'ad given up and decided there just wasn't goin' to be a fifth birthday picture, I promised Johanna a chocolate birthday cake if she'd go and just not smile."

Sweeney frowns at the picture. "She's smiling here."

Mrs. Lovett laughs. "At the last minute, I made a goofy face and she laughed. She wouldn't speak to me all day, but she got 'er chocolate cake and I got a ruddy adorable picture."

He can only imagine a five year old Johanna's temper at being tricked in such a way, and he almost smiles to think that she'd given Mrs. Lovett the silent treatment. He cannot even comprehend either one of them being silent for very long. As he turns to the next portrait, Sweeney realizes that this is exactly what he needs. He needs to know what happened while he was gone, what his family went through, what their lives were like and all the amusing things Johanna did as a child. He wants to hear every single bit of it, soak it up like a sponge and retain all the stories and memories until he knows them by heart, until he feels as if he'd been there himself. He only wishes Lucy would be the one to share it with him.

Eyes studying the way Johanna's blonde hair grows longer with every passing year, and always arranged so neatly in gentle curls, Sweeney says, "Lucy didn't mention these."

Mrs. Lovett pulls the gin bottle away from her mouth, swallowing and he can't help but notice that she doesn't wince at the tingling burn as it slides down her throat. "Probably forgot, with the excitement of you bein' back an' all." The skepticism in his expression must be evident because Mrs. Lovett's expression softens. "She just needs more time. She's in denial, love. Doesn't want to admit that you ain't who you used to be."

He isn't. He doesn't even _look _like Benjamin anymore. What he finds most troubling is that Mrs. Lovett and Johanna have managed to accept the changes in him remarkably quickly, but his own wife is struggling with her affections. What makes it so much more difficult for her?

The cheerful voice of Mrs. Lovett pulls him from his thoughts, "Johanna was such a lit'le imp. Still is, really. Look at that face - so deceptively sweet."

Sweeney looks down at the picture she's referring to. Ten year old Johanna is sitting straight in a high-backed chair in a long blue gown. Her blonde hair has been arranged carefully to fall down her shoulders in perfect ringlets. Her hands are folded primly in her lap, her chin is lifted proudly and a serene smile lights up her face. She looks like an angel.

"Look at the next one," Mrs. Lovett murmurs.

He does, and it's still ten year old Johanna. This time, she is twisted in her seat as though she's looking at someone not in the picture. Her nose is scrunched up in distaste and she's twirling a finger through a blonde lock of hair, her eyes rolled heavenward. Mrs. Lovett laughs and Sweeney finds himself struggling not to join her.

"She wasn't quite ready when that one was taken," she says, smiling fondly at it. "My fault, really. Lucy 'ad the photographer take another one, but I bought that one too. It's the only picture I 'ave of 'er not sittin' all proper like a princess." Mrs. Lovett snorts. "I think Anthony'd like to see this one."

Sweeney scowls, the light feeling in his heart disappearing instantly at the thought of the sailor. Anthony has been here nearly every day since Johanna invited him to dinner last week. When Sweeney comes downstairs for breakfast, it isn't unusual to find Anthony already there, at a table in the pie shop with Johanna and Mrs. Lovett, chatting amiably.

Mrs. Lovett is only too happy to have an extra hand around the shop, sweet-talking Anthony into scrubbing dishes, sweeping the floor and carrying heavy boxes down to the bakehouse. Johanna is wholly enamored with him, speaking animatedly with him while he sweeps the floor, trailing after him as he carries things to the bakehouse, and drying the dishes while he washes them. If he thought it wouldn't upset Johanna, Sweeney would have already thrown Anthony out onto the street for looking at his daughter with such open adoration.

Noticing the dark look on his face, Mrs. Lovett smirks. "Oh now, Mr. T. Anthony's a good lad."

_Mr. T_. It's an echo of the nickname she used to have for him all those years ago, when she would affectionately call out a hello to "Mr. B" as he entered her shop every morning for a pie. "She deserves better," he mumbles, taking a gulp of gin.

Eyebrow raised, Mrs. Lovett glances down at her own drink, running her index finger over the rim of the bottle. "Johanna deserves better than any man yet in existence, love. But Anthony's a sweet boy, and I've been watchin' 'im with 'er. I wouldn't even _think _of encouragin' Johanna if I thought 'e wasn't good enough for 'er." Mrs. Lovett shrugs one shoulder carelessly, smiling a little at the tabletop. "Sort of romantic, if you ask me. The boy rescued you, and in turn, met your daughter. Quite a twist of fate, Mr. T."

Sweeney doesn't answer, scowling down at the latest picture of Johanna, from her sixteenth birthday. Her back straight, her golden hair flowing down her shoulders and dressed in an elegant gown, she looks like a younger version of her mother. Johanna is certainly a vision to behold. However, there are two things that betray the otherwise mirror image of Lucy. Johanna's smile is a simple twist of her lips that doesn't quite reach her eyes, as though she has a rather intriguing secret concerning the world itself, and she finds it terribly amusing that no one else has discovered it themselves.

The smile is Mrs. Lovett's.

Johanna's eyes are darker than Lucy's sparkling blue ones. Lucy's eyes have always reminded him of cornflower - so bright, so full of life and the warmth of summer. Benjamin never grew tired of staring into them, seeing Lucy's own affection reflected back at him. Johanna has brown eyes - the color of autumn, of murky river water in the dead of winter. Up until now, Sweeney didn't believe he'd had any part in Johanna's life, that she had grown up without even a touch of his influence or Benjamin's traits. But that isn't entirely true. He is there every time she glances inside a mirror.

Johanna's eyes are his own.

* * *

A/N - First off, thanks to one of my best pals and darling beta, Robynne. She's fantastic and she writes her own infinitely better stories. Go check out In The Dark Beside You. It's too amazing for words. Secondly, kudos to TrixieFirecracker for pointing out that I named my lion tamer in the last chapter, Fitzwilliam Lefroy, after Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy from Pride and Prejudice and Tom Lefroy from Becoming Jane! She gets a cookie. Also, check out the song I named this chapter after, and which was the inspiration for the last scene between Todd and Lovett - Trouble Sleeping by The Perishers. Thanks so much for your reviews, you're all completely amazing, as I'm sure you know by now:D

amn - Thanks for your review! I'm glad you liked the chapter. As for the reappearance of Turpin, you'll just have to be patient and see what happens:)


	6. A Domino Effect

_Proof of Heaven_

In the long years between his arrest and his return, Sweeney had forgotten. But now, feeling a bit out of place with the dainty china in his calloused hands, he remembers Mrs. Lovett's perfect blend of tea. Staring down at the steaming cup, the taste of the honey Mrs. Lovett always adds still lingering in his mouth, Sweeney almost feels like he never left. As though he has never missed a single morning of tea with Mrs. Lovett, and that any moment now, they're going to begin gossiping and laughing like schoolchildren, only to be interrupted by the faint sound of Johanna's cries as she wakes from her slumber in the parlor.

But he isn't Benjamin Barker and Johanna isn't going to wake up on the settee and burst into tears when she discovers her father is not holding her. In fact, standing just across the room, drying plates and putting them away as Anthony Hope scrubs at them, Johanna doesn't seem to need him at all.

It's because of Anthony that Sweeney is even here, able to sit in Mrs. Lovett's kitchen and drink tea, the reason he isn't a corpse drifting in the ocean. That fact alone is the only reason Todd hasn't shot at him yet.

"Mr. T?"

He realizes too late that Mrs. Lovett has said his name at least twice and is now towering over him with a frown. He tears his gaze away from the back of Anthony's head and looks at her.

She sighs, turning her eyes from him to Anthony and Johanna. "Want to take your tea in the parlor, love?" She hints. "It's warmer by the fire."

Jaw tight and jutted forward, he crosses his arms.

Mrs. Lovett huffs, resting a hand on her hip. "Mr. T," she says in a low voice, so the younger two can't overhear. "Give 'em some time alone, eh? Can't very well talk with you sittin' there, watchin' over 'em like a hawk."

"Exactly," he mutters through gritted teeth.

Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Lovett picks up her own cup of tea and throws Johanna an apologetic look before stomping from the room, muttering about the pigheadedness of the Barkers under her breath. Sweeney blinks in surprise. For just a moment, the situation had felt almost too familiar. Mrs. Lovett was always scolding Benjamin, swatting at his hand with her rolling pin when he tried to swipe his finger in a bowl of batter, laughing at his clumsiness, and more often than not, rolling her eyes at his stubbornness. In that instant, listening to her still mumbling irritably to herself in the parlor, Sweeney feels so much at home that it makes him feel light-headed. But he knows the feeling is a lie. No matter how it seems in that moment, nothing is the same. Despite how truly at home he is beginning to feel, Turpin had ruined the life Sweeney once had here and there is no gaining it back. Mrs. Lovett may be the same as he remembers, but nothing else is. Johanna is grown, and Lucy can barely bring herself to look at him.

Perhaps inviting (he refuses to think of it as begging) Mrs. Lovett to stay with him last night had not been such a good idea. He'd been so desperate for company, and Mrs. Lovett had been all too willing to share her gin and her time, but now, he thinks maybe he should be spending more time with his wife, not their landlady. It makes him feel guilty, knowing he'd been alone for hours with another woman while his wife slept soundly above their heads. However, Mrs. Lovett's company had been as comforting as he hoped it would be. For that, he cannot feel remorse.

Usually, he spends the night drinking and staring into the darkness, despairing over his crumbling marriage, the gaping, ever-widening chasm between himself and Lucy. Last night, instead of going through three bottles, he had barely consumed more than three glasses. In place of his excessive drinking, he had listened to Mrs. Lovett's stories of Johanna's childhood. He'd almost been able to imagine he had been there himself. For those few, precious hours, he had almost _forgotten _the clenching, ever-present knot in his chest.

Anthony's laugh and the splash of water draws Sweeney's attention back to his daughter and the sailor just in time to hear the boy ask, "I don't understand how you can know so much about Africa when you've never been there. Surely books don't provide _that _much information."

"Oh, I think you'd be shocked by how much you can learn about anyplace from literature, if you really try," Johanna says. "Once I took an interest in Africa, Auntie Nell decided I needed every book on the subject she could find. She would come home from the market with her arms laden with books on Africa - what sort of plants they had, the animals, indigenous tribes, the culture of the people, the sort of food they eat." She laughs. "And then at night, before I was old enough to read on my own, she would sit for hours, reading to me about lions and zebras until I fell asleep. I imagine she must have been bored to tears. Africa never did fascinate her like it does me."

Anthony hands her a plate and Johanna begins to dry it with her damp towel. "I know of one you'd really enjoy. Did Mrs. Lovett ever happen to bring home The Interesting Narrative Life of - "

"Olaudah Equiano," Johanna finishes with a smile. "I've had it memorized by heart since I was eight. Don't mention it to Auntie Nell. I made her read it so often she grows positively white at the merest mention of it."

Anthony laughs, fumbling with an ale mug in his slippery grip. "Has she always been so...indulgent?"

"Always," Johanna says, and even with his eyes on his half-empty cup of tea, Sweeney knows Johanna is looking at Anthony with the proud grin she always wears when she speaks of Mrs. Lovett.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Anthony says, "And she isn't even your mother. Mrs. Barker must spoil you senseless." He laughs. "Between the two of them, you must be impossible. So how is it I find you so agreeable?" Anthony turns to look at her, squinting. "Can it be you are hiding your true nature from me, Johanna?"

Sweeney nearly chokes on his tea, coughing into his cup. No one seems to notice, and straightening in his chair, he resumes glaring at the back of Anthony's head.

Swatting at Anthony with her towel, Johanna bites back a giggle. "Auntie Nell doesn't always spoil me. She can be terribly honest, you know. Ever since I was a child, she's never lied to me."

Anthony frowns. "That's impossible."

Raising a challenging eyebrow, Johanna says, "Should I bring Auntie Nell in here and tell her you think her a liar?"

Anthony's eyes widen marginally, and he blushes, turning back to the pile of dirty dishes in front of him. "I just mean it doesn't seem quite feasible to never lie to a child. Sometimes they require that sort of coddling."

"Auntie Nell simply tells me how things are, though she may have sugar-coated things when I was very young. But it's always the truth." Anthony still looks skeptical, and Johanna laughs at him. "Alright, would you like an example?"

"I think that would be most helpful," Anthony smiles.

Gesturing for him to continue washing plates, Johanna picks up a clean one and walks to the cupboard to put it away. She glances at Sweeney and he averts his gaze, pretending to be fascinated with the scratched and fading design etched into Mrs. Lovett's china. Johanna, determining that he isn't listening to them, begins quietly, "When I was old enough to realize I didn't have a father like most girls, I asked my mother where mine was. She told me that my father was the man in the moon, always watching over me." Johanna smiles. "Auntie Nell's story was quite different. She told me a corrupt man had taken my father away for his own selfish purposes, but that he would be back for me one day."

Suddenly the extra honey Mrs. Lovett added is no longer comforting. The taste sticks in his mouth, sickly sweet and making his stomach roil. Sweeney grimaces and takes another sip anyway. If he finishes with his tea, he will have no reason to stay and he refuses to leave the sailor alone with Johanna.

Johanna continues, returning to Anthony's side. "I knew then, that while mother would always try to protect me, Auntie Nell would tell me the truth." She flashes a quick smile. "I learned very quickly which I preferred."

Anthony nods, handing her a soapy plate. "You know," he says lightly, "the Chinese don't see a man in the moon. They see a rabbit."

Johanna laughs incredulously. "A rabbit on the moon? How absurd."

"No more absurd than the idea of a man on the moon," Anthony counters. "To them, seeing a man on the moon is just as silly."

"I suppose so," Johanna says, frowning in thought.

Anthony smiles fondly. "My mother used to say she saw a woman. Apparently there was an old legend about a woman who stole an immortality potion from her husband and has been living on the moon for four thousand years."

"I think I prefer the thought of a rabbit up there," Johanna confesses with a laugh. "The moon is so far away. People would get very lonely, don't you think?"

"Perhaps they're all up there. The man, the woman and the rabbit - keeping each other company." Anthony shrugs thoughtfully, scrubbing at the last plate while Johanna waits by his side to dry it. "Having a companion makes most anything tolerable. " He glances at her. "Even washing dishes."

Johanna beams.

--

Eleanor feels as though she might explode.

They've been sitting outside for nearly a full hour and Johanna hasn't said a word. Instead, she has had her nose buried in some book she'd borrowed from Anthony, and none of Nellie's rather dramatic sighs of boredom have been able to rouse her from her reverie.

The day is unusually warm for the middle of February. Ever since she'd woken with the thin material of her nightgown sticking to her skin and her blankets kicked to the foot of the bed, Eleanor has been unable to keep a cheery grin from her face. She'd thrown open every window in the house and left open the door of the pie shop just to feel the breeze wafting in from the dingy streets. The sky is just as bleak as it's ever been, but the air is so humid it reminds Eleanor of the seaside, sitting on her Aunt Nettie's porch, fanning herself and waiting for a breeze to lift damp, red tendrils from the back of her neck.

As soon as they'd dressed, Nellie had dragged Johanna outside with her, and they've been sitting in the garden, at one of the tables usually reserved for customers. Her book lying open before her, Johanna sits with her elbows on the table, her eyes glued to the page.

Nellie sighs again, loudly.

Johanna does not look up.

Frowning at her, chin resting in her palm as she sits across from Johanna and blatantly staring, Eleanor wonders what that bloody book contains that is so much more fascinating than she is. Pirates, perhaps? They do have a rather colorful vocabulary; but then again, so does she. Their clothes are in tatters; but her dresses aren't exactly in mint condition either. Pirates love the sea; Nellie has always been particularly fond of the ocean and the salt air.

Finally, as if feeling Nellie's puzzled gaze on her, Johanna lifts her eyes from her book, lips twisting into an exasperated smile. "Something on your mind, Auntie Nell?"

Pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, Eleanor shakes her head. "Course not."

"Then why are you staring at me like that?" Johanna laughs.

"Because you've obviously outgrown my charmin' company an' I'm tryin' to figure out when books became so much more interestin' than I am," Nellie sighs again, woefully, and Johanna giggles at her.

"I assure you, you're just as endlessly fascinating as you've always been," Johanna reaches across the worn wooden table to pat Nellie's hand. "I'm sorry for neglecting you. What would you like to talk about?"

Eleanor laughs. "It's 'ardly the same when I 'ave to _make _you 'ave a conversation with me. Might as well be talkin' to your father."

Johanna shakes her head, but there is no mistaking the light in her eyes whenever Mr. Todd is mentioned. "Don't be so hard on him," she says, glancing back down at her book, as if it truly pains her to be parted from whatever it contains. "He's trying. And he's doing much better - just yesterday, he looked right at you and asked if you had any tea. I thought I was imagining things!"

"Believe me, love," Nellie says. "No one was more surprised than me. "Thought I might faint from the shock."

Johanna laughs, closing her book, but holding one finger inside the pages to mark her spot. "It's the first time I'm ever heard him speak directly to you. What on earth do you think made him do such a thing?"

Feeling heat creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks, like a flame licking at a piece of wood, Eleanor fixes her gaze on the table. After searching through Johanna's portraits and sharing a bottle of gin two nights ago, she has struggled against dwelling on the time they spent together. Mr. Todd had only asked her to stay because he was lonely, and who could blame the man? His wife is too disappointed and terrified to spend time with him, and while his daughter loves him, Johanna is hardly in a position to comfort Mr. Todd. Nellie had simply been his only option.

Any human being, no matter what they've been through, craves companionship and Mr. Todd is no different. His eyes, cold and black, whisper of torments beyond imagination; the white streak in his dark hair speaks of burdens and trials too much for one to bear; but Sweeney Todd is still a man, a man who needs the company of another. Eleanor has never had to be alone - she has always had her parents, or Albert, or the Barkers. She can't imagine what state her mind would be in if she'd been forced to spend the last fifteen years in isolation.

Even still, thinking of his face that night in the candlelight as he gazed down at Johanna's pictures with eyes so full of pain and adoration, she can't help but feel her heart begin to pound, its frantic beat pulsing at her ears. She'd babbled on nervously at him, about Johanna, about Mrs. Mooney's cat pies, about Albert's passing, and while he hadn't said much, she could tell he'd been listening, his head tilted and his eyes on their shared bottle of gin. Mr. Todd always looks so tense. It's as if he expects to be struck and can't help but steel himself against the inevitable pain. But that night, in the pie shop with her, he had seemed almost...at ease.

"I don't know, my love," Eleanor finally answers with a sad smile. "I showed 'im your birthday portraits two nights ago. Maybe that finally made 'im decide I won't bite."

"Not anymore," Johanna interjects teasingly, ignoring Nellie's glare as she opens her book again. She stops, hesitating, and the pages flutter in the breeze as she stares uncertainly at Nellie. "Auntie Nell...I have something to tell you."

The look on Johanna's face is one of anxiety, and Eleanor can't remember the last time the girl was afraid to tell her something. She looks the way she used to when she pleaded with Lucy to let her climb a tree, knowing the answer but afraid of it anyway. It makes her stomach lurch, and she wraps her arms protectively around herself, heart pounding. Glancing out at the street as a group of children run across the lane, dirty and giggling, she tilts her head to the side and tries to smile. "I knew you were bein' quiet for a reason."

"You see, I've been thinking - "

"Well there's your trouble, right there, love," Eleanor grins crookedly. "What 'ave I told you about thinkin'? Get you in a world of trouble, it will."

"Auntie _Nell_!" Johanna offers an exasperated look and Nellie holds up her hands.

"Alright, sorry. Go a'ead, love."

"I've been _thinking_," Johanna stops when her voice begins to tremble, reaching up to rub at the back of her neck awkwardly, swallowing. She takes a deep breath and begins again, her voice steady. "I was thinking that I might look for employment elsewhere." She spares a glance at Nellie, taking in her blank expression and continues quickly, "It isn't that I don't love helping you and spending time with you, you know that. But...we can only afford meat so often, and having me here isn't really helping you at all with business as slow as it is."

_Employment elsewhere?_ Nellie tries to herself making the pies without Johanna to throw batter at, serving customers without calling orders to Johanna, or without meeting in the kitchen during the dinner rush to trade gossip about their customers. The thought of running the pie shop without Johanna drains the remaining color from her cheeks, but Nellie doesn't so much as flinch. Staring into anxious brown eyes, Nellie feels mute and helpless. She opens and closes her mouth for a moment like a fish, until she finds the words, "You don't 'ave to do this, love. I don't want you worryin' about money - I've always taken care of you, an' I always will." She smiles bravely. "We're not doin' so bad."

"No, that's not it at all," Johanna says, reaching out for Nellie's hand. "You've always watched over me, Auntie Nell. I've always had a warm bed to sleep in, and food to eat because of you. But now that I'm old enough, I want to repay you for that. It's time for me to start contributing to this family."

Bloody hell. Her little Johanna, her darling, frustrating, willful little Johanna, sounds like a responsible adult - the young woman Nellie has always tried to raise her to be. Wasn't she just a little girl only yesterday, sobbing on the floor because of a spot of flour on her dress? Tears well up in Nellie's eyes and she doesn't bother to hide them, glancing up from her lap to see Johanna's brown eyes bright with tears of her own. "You're gettin' to be so bloody grown up," she breathes.

"Are you angry with me?" Johanna asks, blinking hard and sending tears spilling down her cheeks.

Choking on a laugh, Nellie reaches up to wipe at her eyes, pulling her other hand from Johanna's to take the girl's chin in her fingers. "Of course not, you silly thing." She offers a watery smile, pride welling in her chest. "I think it's a smashing idea, love."

"Really?"

Nellie grins at Johanna's hopeful expression. "Absolutely. 'Sides, I think it'll be good for you, makin' money and bein' dependent on no one but yourself. I'm so ruddy proud of you, my love."

Johanna blushes, her cheeks flushing scarlet, and Nellie realizes with startling clarity that she is growing up. She has come to expect it, has pushed Lucy time and again to let her, but now that it's happening, Eleanor wants nothing more than to scramble to pick up the remaining pieces of Johanna's childhood, to clutch them to her protectively, to slip them into her dress pocket and keep them tucked away safely.

She sighs into the warm afternoon air, knowing Lucy would be just giddy to know how sentimental she's feeling - Lucy, who has never been shy about expressing her desire to keep Johanna a little girl until the end of bloody time. Then, without warning, Nellie begins to laugh.

Johanna stares. "What on - "

Giggling so hard she can barely breathe, Nellie manages, "I just realized, you're goin' to 'ave to tell your mother. Oh, she'll be ecstatic that you want to leave me, to be sure. But to get a job! Oh, she'll 'ave a fit!" Johanna doesn't look amused, so Nellie tries to muffle her chuckling in the palm of her hand, and her shoulders begin to shake with the effort of holding in her amusement.

Glowering, Johanna crosses her arms over her chest and sniffs, "I'm glad you find it so amusing. I've decided to tell her at dinner, so you can be there to support me."

It isn't nearly so funny now that she has to witness Lucy's wide-eyed reaction to her precious daughter finding a job, and Eleanor cringes at the confrontation to come. Laughter stopping as quickly as it started, she frowns at Johanna's satisfied face. "Well that's just not fair at all, love."

--

The rattle of cutlery punctuates the otherwise stiff atmosphere at the dinner table. Mrs. Lovett and Johanna had spent two hours in the kitchen, cooking and talking too quickly for Sweeney to even attempt to keep up, but he'd listened to their happy chatter from the parlor and the silence that now reigns is a harsh contrast.

Lucy sits next to him, back straight and napkin in her lap as she brings a spoonful of soup to her lips. Except for this morning, when she'd murmured a goodbye as she left for work, she hasn't spoken to him at all. He is beginning to wonder if he'd truly upset her by snapping at her, or if he'd merely given her a good reason to avoid him even further.

He misses his wife.

He misses her companionship, her tinkling laugh, the gentle touch of her hand against his cheek. He had waited fifteen years to experience the warmth of Lucy Barker again - a warmth so inviting Benjamin used to say she was his own personal ray of sunshine - and now that he is near enough to bask in her radiant glow, she is too frightened of him to offer him so much as a smile. It used to come to easily; all he had to do was walk into a room and she would grin. He remembers waking up to her smile, brighter than the sun shining in through their bedroom window, and falling asleep to the feel of her beaming into his chest. It is Lucy's smile that he misses most.

Ignoring his own food, unsettled by Johanna and Mrs. Lovett's odd silence and his own memories of the past, Sweeney sneaks a glance at his wife. She looks tired. Her skin is as radiant as ever, her golden waves arranged to perfection down her back and her elegant blue dress is pressed and spotless, but her eyes give her away. He can't detect even a hint of the teasing sparkle they once held.

Sensing his gaze, Lucy turns to look at him, and from the moment their eyes lock, she looks lost. Like a frightened lamb wandering in a wood filled with wolves. Her fear might as well have been a razor to his throat. Turning her wide-eyed gaze hurriedly away from him and back to her soup, Lucy clears her throat softly. Pointedly avoiding his eyes, she looks briefly at Johanna and Mrs. Lovett, asking quietly, "What did you all do today?"

Mrs. Lovett glances up from listlessly stirring her untouched soup, her brown eyes wide and startled. "Oh," she breathes with a fixed smile. "A li'tle of this, li'tle of that. Not much, dear." She turns her gaze on Johanna and raises her eyebrows, inclining her head toward Lucy. Johanna frowns and turns back to studying her own bowl, obviously intent on ignoring Mrs. Lovett. The baker scowls and looks at Lucy again, swallowing. "Actually, Lucy...Johanna 'as somethin' she wants to tell you."

Sweeney watches with mild interest as Johanna glares balefully at her aunt and Mrs. Lovett only winks good-naturedly. Lucy doesn't look up, blue eyes focused on her own porridge. "Oh?" She asks distractedly, and it sounds as though she is speaking without attending to her words at all. "What's that?"

"I was thinking," Johanna begins, fiddling nervously with her napkin. Her eyes dart up apprehensively to meet Sweeney's. "I was thinking that it's time for me to find a job, mother."

Lucy blinks, slowly raising her head to look at Johanna. "You have a job, darling," she says. "You work with Eleanor in the pie shop."

"But we can only afford meat for a few days a month," Johanna protests, looking to Mrs. Lovett for support, and the baker nods encouragingly, reaching for her gin. "If I found a job, we could make the whole rent and stop living on Auntie Nell's charity. Then she could afford more meat and open the pie shop more often. Don't you see, mother? It's the perfect solution."

Johanna has obviously thought this through quite thoroughly, and Sweeney knows that if he could do so without feeling self-conscious, he might be smiling proudly at her. It comes as a surprise when he sees Lucy shift out of the corner of his eyes, and he glances at her to see her shaking her head.

"You're too young to find work, Johanna," Lucy says calmly. "I think you should remain here with Eleanor until you're old enough."

Johanna scowls at her mother from across the table. "I'm already working!"

"Yes, _with Eleanor_," Lucy sighs. "Here, where she can keep an eye on you."

"I hardly need to be looked after," Johanna snaps, and Lucy flinches at her tone.

Mrs. Lovett, with her uncanny ability for sensing when things are about to get out of hand, puts down her half-empty glass of gin and Sweeney eyes it enviously. "Oh, really now," she says with a cheery sigh. "There's no need to get so worked up. Let's talk about this calmly, all nice and quiet - "

"There is nothing to discuss," Lucy interrupts with a pointed glance at Mrs. Lovett. "Johanna is too young. It's perfectly alright for her to work here, where you can look after her but I don't want her venturing out into the city every day." She looks pityingly on Johanna's scowling face. "I do it every morning and I know the kind of people lurking out there. Lunatics, pickpockets and depraved men of all sorts. All of them out there, waiting for some pretty, innocent young woman to wander off down the wrong street."

Scoffing into her drink, Mrs. Lovett reasons, "Johanna 'as lived in London all 'er life, she isn't about to get lost. And she deals with my rowdy bunch of customers, I think she's perfectly capable of takin' care of 'erself."

"And what makes you so confident, Eleanor?"

"Because I live with 'er," Mrs. Lovett laughs humorlessly. "She's ruddy smart, she is. An' I pity the man who meets 'er in a dark alley." She winks at Johanna, who cracks a reluctant smile. "London is 'ardly safe, but neither is anywhere else, dear. She's got to leave Fleet Street on 'er own sometime." She rolls her eyes at Lucy's skeptical frown. "Bloody 'ell, I'll even walk with her the first few times, if you want!"

"What will she do when you're no longer there?" Lucy asks, shaking her head and looking at her daughter. "I'm sorry Johanna, I know you want to help, but I don't think it's a good idea. Perhaps, when you're older, we'll see about finding you a position at the dress shop. We'll walk there together."

Johanna looks crestfallen. "But mother - "

"Oh, pish tosh," Mrs. Lovett huffs, and then addresses Sweeney directly. "I think it would be right good for 'er, don't you, Mr. T?"

Sweeney suddenly finds three sets of eyes on him, all expectant. He stares blankly back at them, fighting down the heat he feels flushing the back of his neck and his cheeks. It has been almost two weeks since his return but he still doesn't feel quite so integrated into the family they've made of themselves as to actually give his opinion - especially on something so crucial to Johanna's happiness.

He hesitates.

Mrs. Lovett is watching him closely, brown eyes narrowed and mouth forming a patient smile, as though pleased to leave the decision up to him. If he didn't find being the center of attention so cloying, he might have scowled at her for looking so amused.

Lucy looks at him imploringly, her expression desperate and pleading. She needs him to agree with her, and he thinks of how they'd promised to always be united when it came to Johanna's upbringing. He thinks of her smile and wonders if she would gaze upon him the way she used to, if he agrees with her now and forbids Johanna from finding employment.

Johanna regards him with a similar look of helplessness, peering out at him through dark eyes so much like his own. Her lips form silent words, her brow puckered. _Please, father. Please._

His daughter. His darling, responsible, loving, independent child.

She wants to assist her mother in making rent, she wants to help Mrs. Lovett afford to keep the pie shop open for more than one week out of the month. She wants to help her family, and Sweeney can't find fault with that. He's proud of her, for realizing that life is full of luxury for few and hardship for most, that as much as her parents would like to keep her a little girl forever, there comes a time when they all must grow up and face the cold world.

She is everything he could want in a child and more than he deserves.

Knowing Lucy will be upset with him and nearly trembling with the shame of it, Sweeney nods once, swallowing painfully. "It would be good for her," he repeats Mrs. Lovett's words dully, and Johanna squeals with delight, beaming gratefully at him.

Her smile is almost enough to make up for the way Lucy's face falls, and she glances away from him, pushing her chair back and rising to her feet. "Thank you for your support, Benjamin," she murmurs stiffly, turning from the dinner table and quickly fleeing the room. After several moments of tense silence, the door upstairs slams. Mrs. Lovett visibly flinches and Sweeney blinks as if Lucy had reached out and struck him.

Mrs. Lovett nearly growls, tossing her napkin onto the table. "Bugger," she huffs, standing and calmly pushing in her chair. She forces a cheery smile. "I'll 'andle this, my loves, not to worry."

She disappears from the kitchen in a rustle of heavy skirts, and for a moment, Mrs. Lovett's agitated grumbling and the dainty thump of her booted shoes on the stairs echo from the staircase. Finally, things settle into silence and Sweeney glances up from his plate to look at Johanna, who smiles sheepishly at him.

"Thank you for agreeing with me, father."

He nods once, warmth and affection flooding through him the way they always do whenever he hears Johanna speak the word.

_Father. _

Overhead, the beginnings of a heated argument brew and voices begin to raise, but Sweeney and his daughter continue with their meal in companionable silence.

--

Opening the door Lucy had slammed only moments ago, Eleanor stands silently in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms folded and her expression one of mild annoyance. "Be'avin' like a bloody child, you are," she says crossly. "Runnin' away and slammin' doors. What's gotten into you, dearie?"

Lucy doesn't turn from the window, her hand pressed against the glass pane as she watches night settle over London. "He agreed with you," she says softly. "I'm his wife, and yet he agreed with you."

Scoffing, Eleanor rolls her eyes. "Well, of course 'e did! You're bein' ridiculous!"

"I'm _not _being ridiculous!" Lucy whirls around to face the baker, eyes bright. "She's far too young to have a job, Eleanor!"

"She's not," Eleanor snaps. "She's never been too young - Johanna 'as been actin' like a bleedin' thirty-year old since she was six!"

Lucy shakes her head in frustration, wrenching herself away from the window to pace the length of the parlor. "I don't care how mature she is, she shouldn't be worrying about rent or your pie business!"

"In a perfect world, love," Nellie sighs. "Johanna should never 'ave to worry about money. Not once. She should 'ave pretty dress and a bloomin' tiara. But this world is far from bein' bloody 'eaven on earth, and there are some things you just can't 'ide from 'er!"

"She's only a child!"

Stamping her foot in protest, Eleanor pushes away from the doorframe and plants her hands on her hips. "She's sixteen, Lucy! She's hardly a child! An' I think it's bloody well admirable of 'er, wantin' to 'elp her family. You should be proud of 'er, not makin' her feel like she's rippin' your bleedin' 'eart out!"

"She might as well be," Lucy cries, and Eleanor stares incredulously. Lucy stops pacing, wiping hurriedly at her cheeks with shaking hands, staring unblinkingly at the worn floorboards. "Both of them...they're so different. It wasn't suppose to be this way."

Pity clouding her eyes for the tired, careworn woman in front of her, Eleanor lets her arms drop to her sides and sighs quietly. "Well, as you can imagine, dearie, this ain't exactly 'ow I picture my life turnin' out either." She laughs. "You think I planned on livin' in some stinkin' pie shop, a childless widow, pleadin' with some silly nit to let 'er sixteen year old daughter 'ave a job?"

Lucy smiles softly, her rosy cheeks streaked with tears. "No, I suppose not."

"Thought I'd be livin' by the sea, really. Always wanted to go back there, since I was a wee scrap of a girl," Nellie drifts closer to Lucy, her brown eyes sorrowful. "But things don't always go the way we plan, dear. Got to make the best of what we've been given, eh?"

The light in Lucy's eyes dims considerably, and she turns her face away, covering her mouth with a slim hand. "I don't know how," she breathes. "Johanna is growing so quickly, and....Benjamin isn't acting like himself. He snapped at me the other day, you know. He never had a temper before..."

"I'm sure 'e's got a lot of new 'abits 'e never 'ad before," Nellie says, glancing idly about the room. In the past two weeks, Lucy has let the apartment fall into the chaotic disarray it was that first month after Benjamin was taken. There are throw pillows on the floor instead of arranged meticulously on the settee, Lucy's knitting supplies are strewn about in a tangled mess of needles and knotted yarn, Mr. Todd's jacket is draped over an armchair instead of hanging up in a wardrobe, and Johanna's books are scattered haphazardly over the floor. Nellie wonders how Mr. Todd doesn't trip on them, stumbling through the dark as he does to get to the gin downstairs. It also makes her wonder what Lucy does up here, since she obviously isn't tidying up. "It's been a long time for 'im too, Lucy. Give the poor man some time - "

"I don't _want _to give him more time," Lucy nearly wails, and as if her knees are simply too weak to hold her up anymore, she collapses onto the settee, boneless. "I've waited fifteen years to have my husband back, I don't want to wait anymore!"

Tilting her head heavenward, silently asking for the patience she needs to deal with Lucy Barker, Eleanor stares blankly at the ceiling and says, "I don't believe I've ever 'eard anything so bloody selfish. You an' I...we can't even begin to imagine what that man 'as gone through. The fact that 'e 'asn't shut 'imself away and refused to do anythin' other than growl like a crazed dog at anyone who comes close enough to touch 'im is a ruddy lot more than I ever expected. Stop bein' so impatient and _be there _for your 'usband."

Tears streaming down her pretty face, Lucy sniffles and raises her head to meet Nellie's eyes. "I can't, Eleanor. I-I can't. When I look at him...he doesn't even - it's like he's not even Benjamin anymore."

It takes all of Eleanor's self control to remind Lucy that Benjamin Barker had never returned from Australia, that he'd probably died a long time ago. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd died before his boat touched the shores of that godforsaken land.

Lucy shakes her head sadly. "I can't bear it."

"Oh, love," Eleanor sighs, moving to sit next to Lucy on the settee, settling in against the cushions and raising her legs to wrap her arms around them. Lucy frowns disapprovingly, but Eleanor ignores her. " 'e may not be what you remember, but 'e's a good man. 'e's always been a good man. If you would just try, you would see that."

Lucy doesn't seem to be attending to her, staring off into space, her eyes fixed unseeingly on a pile of precariously stacked books on the coffee table. "He's been coming to bed every morning, reeking of gin." She sniffles. "I'll wake up in the middle of the night and find him gone. He won't come back until sunrise, and the scent of alcohol on him is almost overpowering. He's been drinking when he _knows _how I feel about it."

"You don't give 'im any choice but to sneak around behind your back," Eleanor reminds her, and for a brief moment, she thinks she hears the sound of Johanna's voice downstairs. How is it that she can hear voices from down there up here, but she can never hear any voices from up here when she's down there? It's maddening.

Lucy squares her shoulders, straightening and looking Nellie directly in the eye with exasperating poise. "I would appreciate it if you would lock away your alcohol every night, so Benjamin can't get to it. I understand that you prefer drinking it, and that your customers demand it, but I won't have your fondness for the drink turning my husband into a drunken layabout. You've already lured Johanna into drinking the vile stuff."

For one moment, Eleanor is too flabbergasted to think of a thing to say. Here she is, trying to comfort the vapid, poised little twit out of the goodness of her heart, though the very thought of Lucy finally understanding her husband, of having to watch the reunited couple embrace and steal kisses, makes her want to jump off the London Bridge. And Lucy has the nerve to scold her for drinking in her own home? The irritation threatens to well up and consume her, and before she can think to stop them, the words spill from her mouth in a fit of defensive annoyance, "Mr. Todd is 'ardly a drunken layabout - didn't 'ave more than three drinks the other night! Do you 'ave to be so - " Nellie stops, mentally wincing because she knows she has just said the wrong thing.

"How do know how many drinks my husband had?" Lucy asks, a barely concealed tremor in her soft voice.

Nellie can only stare, caught.

Lucy seems to understand quite well without Nellie's input, a look of carefully controlled rage distorting her angelic features, her brow furrowing and her mouth tightening. "So that's where he's been every night - drinking with you."

Stumbling to regain her voice, Eleanor waves her hands frantically. "Now that's not right at all, dear. I 'eard a noise and saw 'im down there, that's all. It was just once."

Lucy draws in a ragged breath, her lower lip trembling. "He can come to you, talk to _you_, but not to me? I'm his _wife_, why can't he - "

"Talk to you?" Nellie asks, eyebrow raised. "Kind of 'ard to 'ave a conversation with someone what doesn't want to be in the same room with you, dear. An' we weren't talkin' about anythin'. I just showed 'im Johanna's pictures, since 'e was up, an' all. I thought 'e might like to see - "

"_What?_" Lucy cries incredulously, leaping to her feet and nearly tripping on a pile of books on the West Indies. "You showed him Johanna's portraits? Eleanor - "

"It ain't like you saw fit to do it yourself," Nellie snaps, letting her feet touch the floor and standing, roughly straightening her mussed skirts. " 'e 'ad a right to see 'em, and you shouldn't 'ave kept them from 'im. Johanna's 'is daughter and - "

"You had no right!" Lucy protests, tears filling her eyes and she quickly turns away to hide them. "I should have been the one to do that."

"And when were you plannin' on doin' it, dearie? Mr. Todd's been home for almost two weeks and you can't even bring yourself to look at 'im."

Hands clenching the skirts of her dress and wrinkling the silk, Lucy sighs shakily, and Nellie watches the light hit her yellow hair, turning it nearly luminescent, and she forces down the quelling pangs of jealousy, reaching up to self-consciously fiddle her own, less radiant, curls. "I wanted to show him when he was acting more like himself. I-I didn't want something that should have been special between us to be tainted by his attitude at the moment."

Nellie gapes, her hand dropping from her scarlet curls and staring at Lucy's back. "It's not an attitude, love. It's your 'usband."

Lucy doesn't respond but Nellie watches silently as the other women reaches up to wipe at her cheeks, her back still turned. Shaking her head in disgust, Nellie turns from the blonde and begins marching for the door, stopping only once to purposely kick over a large stack of Johanna's books, sending them tumbling into the floor with a _thunk _and subsequently knocking over a coat rack, which makes a great _crash _as it lands against a table of Lucy's knick-knacks, sending them scattering every which way on the floor.

A domino effect.

Satisfied, Eleanor strides out the door with a small smile, shutting it firmly behind her.

--

Market morning is something akin to the deepest circle of hell. The streets are filthy, covered in mud, booze and all manner of feculent matter. The natural stench of the city with its smoking chimneys and unwashed beggars mingles with the scent of sweating horses, and the smell rises upward to hang overhead with the thick fog, in a heavy blanket of putrid stink.

People crowd in from everywhere - farmers, orphans, hawkers, pick-pockets, beggars and the rich, all grouped together in one dense, squalid mass. The roar of mingled voices rises above the rattle of carriages and the clanging of the cathedral bells, voices of the hawkers and the people haggling with them for a better price. There are shouts, curses, arguing, and occasionally, an actual tussle in the mud and grime of the streets. In order to get anywhere, one has to shove, crowd, push, yell and generally make an ill-mannered nuisance of oneself. Every market day is an event in itself, and one feels quite exhausted when it's time to head home.

While Eleanor loves going to the market, haggling with sellers over their wares in order to get a better deal than anyone else and walking arm in arm with Johanna through the different stalls, she usually loathes all the noise. However, today, it is the only thing keeping her awake. Usually, she falls into bed around eleven. Midnight, if the pie shop had been open that day. Last night, she hadn't felt exhaustion at all, too wrapped up in her own contentedness, but now, she is sorely feeling the lack of sleep.

Before retiring to bed last night, she'd gone through the house, turning off lamps and tidying up as she went. She'd found Mr. Todd sitting at a table in the pie shop, open bottle of gin in front of him. Still upset, Lucy had gone to bed early, and he hadn't needed to sneak out after his wife had fallen asleep. He'd looked so lonely, sitting there by himself in the dark. Nellie couldn't help but feel that it was partly her fault.

"_Sorry for puttin' you in the middle of all that, Mr. Todd."_ Standing on the other side of the table, she had watched him with sorrow and a hint of fascination. To her utter surprise, he'd only nodded, and slowly, as if hesitating, he'd taken hold of the gin bottle and slid it purposefully in her direction, never once looking up from his intense study of the table's woodwork. For once, Nellie couldn't think of a thing to say, but she pushed back her chair, and sat.

They'd kept each other company once more, sharing a bottle of gin until sunrise, when she'd fallen into bed for a few precious hours and dreamt of his eyes. He hadn't spoken much, and shockingly, neither had she. It had been the second time she has ever had alone with him - not popping in to see if he needs anything, or waiting with him for Johanna to bring in a bottle of gin, but actually spending time with him. Without Johanna's pictures to fawn over, or her own shock to get over this time, she had been able to study Sweeney Todd up close. He is entirely different, yet somehow the same. He doesn't smile anymore, not really. His mouth will twitch, like he desperately wants to. Either, he will not let himself, or he just doesn't remember how to do it. She can't imagine he had many reasons to smile while he was gone.

He isn't Benjamin, but sometimes, she still catches a glimpse of Mr. Barker in the way he holds his head, or when the light hits his eyes just right and she can see a glimpse of the warm brown in his eyes. The white streak in his hair is simply remarkable, and she had caught herself shamelessly admiring it several times. Bless him - the oblivious thing he has always been - he didn't notice. The streak marks him, somehow, as someone special, someone different. It makes him even more beautiful than he ever was before.

And she'd had realized something else last night.

She prefers this new man, Todd, to Barker. She'd loved Benjamin, she knows she had. She'd loved the way his mouth worked so quickly he sometimes stumbled over his words, she'd loved the way his hair was always ruffled and falling into his eyes at the end of every day, she'd loved his ironic way of speaking; she'd cried the day she found out about Lucy's pregnancy. But there is something more about Sweeney Todd, something altogether different that strikes her deep in her bones, something she can't even begin to explain with any words yet in existence. He doesn't stumble excitedly over his words; in fact, he doesn't speak much at all, but his silent company is enough to send her heart racing. He's darker, more dangerous, and the new gruffness in his voice makes her shiver, makes her want to close her eyes and let his words wash over her the same way waves lap at the shore.

"Auntie Nell?"

Eleanor blinks, suddenly realizing she has been daydreaming in the middle of the market. She turns from a display of hideous looking feather hats to see Johanna holding up a pair of gloves. "Any holes in 'em, love?"

Johanna shakes her head, turning them over in her hands. "I don't see any. They're pretty, don't you think?"

"Depends," Eleanor says dryly, reaching out for them. " 'ow much are they?"

The gloves are a pretty, white satin and elbow length - they'll look lovely when paired with Johanna's blue gown. Nellie had surprised her with it for Christmas, but the dress was so beyond what Nellie could afford that Johanna refused to leave the house wearing it, afraid she would get it dirty. Now, with an appointment to be interviewed by a couple in Kensington for a position as a maid in their household, Johanna needs the more opulent dress to make a good impression.

They'd scoured the newspaper this morning, and Johanna had come across the perfect job opening. The couple just moved to London from Shropshire and are in want of a maid. Nellie is doing her best to ignore the fact that if Johanna gets this job, she will be living in Kensington - the richer district of London, full of businessmen and politicians. She will get to come home on Sundays, and the thought of seeing her so little forms a lump in Nellie's throat and builds stinging tears behind her eyes.

"Three pence?" Nellie tsks disapprovingly, but tucks the gloves under her arm anyway. Johanna needs a pair of gloves; she might as well splurge and get a nice pair. "Are you sure you want to live with these people, love? What if they're 'orrible blighters what never let you come 'ome?"

Johanna sighs and Nellie frowns at her exasperation. "Stop worrying, Auntie Nell. If I even get the job, and I might not, I'll be home every Sunday - they can just try and stop me. Besides, they're from the country. From what I can tell, they're just nice people who want to keep their house clean."

"Yes, _from what you can tell_," Nellie scolds gently. "The man's a lawyer - 'e ain't exactly a saint. You're far too trustin', love. Lit'le bit of your mother in you I'll never be able to get rid of, though I've certainly tried my damnedest."

Any other time, Johanna would have laughed at that, but now, a trouble look crosses her face, her delicate nose wrinkling as she passes by a cart of crudely made jewelry. "Auntie Nell...is mother terribly upset with me? She didn't eat breakfast with us, and she didn't say goodbye when she left for work."

Lucy and her ruddy dramatics.

She _had _been rather frigid this morning, coming downstairs while the rest of them sat at the kitchen table, picking at their breakfasts. She hadn't taken a seat with them, standing at the counter instead, sipping half-heartedly at her tea. She'd left for work with an empty stomach and without saying a word to anyone, including her husband, who had been sitting at the kitchen table, looking at Lucy with such longing it made Nellie ache.

It's all very well if she wants to ignore Eleanor. In fact, she'd be perfectly content if Lucy vowed to never open her mouth in her presence again. It would almost be a blessing to rid herself of Lucy's sighs, complaints and overbearing parenting. But Lucy isn't just ignoring Eleanor - she's ignoring Johanna, her only daughter. It's understandable for Lucy to be upset with her, considering how she'd yelled - not that the bloody loon hadn't deserved it - and had smashed quite a few porcelain figures on her way out the door, but Johanna had done nothing but want to take care of her family.

Lucy is punishing Johanna for something between herself and Nellie, and for that, Nellie wants to take the daft nit's entire wardrobe to the market to hawk. Lucy has several pretty little frocks that would fetch quite the profit - certainly enough to afford new dresses and books for Johanna, and meat for the pie shop...

Eleanor smiles at Johanna, and the grin broadens when she thinks of how distraught Lucy would be to come home and find all her lacy pink and white gowns gone, her dainty slippers missing, and even her stockings vanished from their drawer. Taking Johanna's arm, Nellie begins to walk to the vendor to pay for the gloves. She pats Johanna's hand. "Oh, she'll be fine, love. Just a touch miffed, is all; you know 'ow your mother is."

"She just makes me so angry," Johanna scowls, jaw clenched. Despite being so frail and petite, she looks to fierce that the man selling them the expensive gloves refuses to look her in the eye. Nellie smothers a laugh at his nervous expression, emptying three pence into his open palm and guiding Johanna away. "Why does she insist on treating me like I'm a little girl?"

A tart reply on the tip of her tongue, Nellie stops, remembering the way tears had sprung to her eyes when Johanna told her the news, the way she'd instantly thought of the golden-haired child who would toddle into Nellie's bedroom, dragging a book entirely too heavy for one so small and look up at her with Benjamin's eyes, begging for a story.

"It ain't easy, watchin' your lit'le girl grow up." Tightening her hold on Johanna's arm, Eleanor smiles gently. "And that's what you'll always be to us, love. Our lit'le girl."

Johanna laughs, somehow delighted by the notion. "Even when I'm ninety, all wrinkled and blind?"

"Especially then." Nellie frowns. "Love?"

"Hmm?"

She hesitates. "You'll...you'll always need your ol' auntie, won't you?"

Johanna stops, looking at Nellie through startled eyes. Then, she smiles, slowly and mischievously. "Oh, Auntie Nell. Of course I'll always need you."

Nellie's eyes narrow skeptically. "Really?"

"Who else will care for me when I'm ninety and blind?"

Gasping, Nellie wrenches her arm from Johanna's as the girl begins to laugh. "The warden at Fogg's will be takin' care of your wrinkled arse, cause that's where I'm tossin' you. Insolent child."

Johanna just grins.

* * *

Hey guys! I'm sorry this chapter took a while. My classes got pretty crazy for a while, one in particular, and I just couldn't put my main focus on writing for a few weeks. Things are starting to settle down again, so hopefully I can get back to updating regularly. No promises though. Haha

BIG, HUGE, MAMMOTH thanks to Robynne, for helping me out with this chapter. I hadn't written anything in about two or three weeks, and felt completely rusty. She helped straighten me out:D She is tré awesome and she makes me feel horribly incompetent. And thanks to Dojo, who helps me out when I'm not historically accurate and has an immense amount of patience for my ignorance:D

Mariana - Haha, I'm still so ridiculously awed that someone in Brazil is reading my story. Technology is pretty amazing. And I'm glad that you like the story, and I'm glad you're becoming addicted. That's definitely a good thing:) Thank you for the review!

Scarecrow - Thanks so much! I'm glad you're okay with the pacing, I'm trying to take my time with this and build things up. It takes a lot of my patience, but I'm hoping it'll be worth it in the end. Thanks for the review!

Mrs. Todd Barker - As you know Proof of Heaven is a line from Pretty Women, and I was still struggling with what to call this story, though I had several names to pick from, none of them felt right. When I heard that line in Pretty Women, I suddenly just knew that it was the one. I ran it past my beta Robynne and she thought so too. So here we are. Haha And I have an outline written out for Proof of Heaven, and as far as I know, there will be around twenty or so chapters, probably a little more than that. Hopefully you all will stick with me for that long. Haha Thanks for the review!


	7. Things Unknown, Longed For Still

_Proof of Heaven_

Standing inside the foyer of the Foster's mansion feels like freedom - like the first breath of a newborn child or the stretching of a baby bird's wings as it prepares to fly from its nest for the very first time. It is all at once exhilarating and terrifying, standing upon the precipice of something entirely new, something unknown and full of promise.

The house smells of cinnamon, and for a moment, if she closes her eyes, she might be able to imagine herself in the kitchen of the pie shop and that any second, Auntie Nell is going to come bustling in, teasing her for daydreaming. But this isn't Auntie Nell's kitchen, and for the first time in her life, Johanna Barker is on her own. Her aunt is not here to help her and her mother is not here to scold her for doing anything improper. The thought is both frightening and thrilling.

The butler, a man named Clarence, has gone to fetch a maid by the name of Flora, who is going to show her around the house and help her settle in before tea time. Waiting has never been Johanna's forte, and she finds herself clutching her carpet bag tightly in gloved hands, glancing anxiously about.

The lavish opulence with which the house is decorated is like nothing Johanna has ever seen before. From her spot in the middle of the foyer, she can see into the parlor, where silver candlesticks are sitting on windowsills, exquisite paintings of barren landscapes and the flourishing countryside ornament the walls and velvet upholstered furniture looks so lovely and dainty that she's afraid of tainting it just by staring at it too long. It seems more like a museum than a home, with statuettes and baubles everywhere one turns. At _her _home, nothing had seemed more natural than collapsing onto the worn settee after a long day of serving pies, or curling up on a rainy day with a book on the armchair with ripped, floral upholstery. Here, Johanna would be too terrified to so much as brush past the cream-colored draperies or lay a hand on the maroon settee for fear of dirtying them.

Footsteps, calm and self-assured, alert Johanna to the presence of another, and she looks up from staring at polished marble just in time to see a woman walk into the room - tall and slender, with pale blonde hair, and dressed in a uniform consisting of a plain black dress and a white apron.

"Let's get you settled in." Flora smiles and Johanna returns the expression nervously. She leads the way through the parlor and down a corridor, into the kitchen. They begin to climb a set of stairs in the back of the room, which Johanna presumes to be for the use of servants only.

Two floors later, on the attic stairs, Flora explains, "It's very dark through here once the sun sets. You'll need to carry a candle or you're liable to trip on your skirts and tumble back down."

The stairs _are _rather narrow, and Johanna makes a mental note to carry a candle and matches in her apron pocket at all times. Reaching the top of the staircase, they stand on a small, cramped landing in front of a closed wooden door. Flora turns the knob and pushes it open, revealing five narrow beds, a set of dressers with a wash basin, and one lone chair next to a tiny window. The furnishings are sparse and battered-looking, but Johanna feels more at home than she had downstairs.

"You'll sleep up here with Ivy, Ruth, Mrs. Bedwin and myself," Flora says, stepping aside to let Johanna walk in ahead of her. She points to a crisply-made bed in the corner. "That's yours. And there's an empty drawer in the dresser for your things."

Standing in the middle of the room and peering around curiously, Johanna frowns. "But where do the men sleep? The butler, Clarence - "

"Oh, Mr. Foster is very fond of Clarence," Flora says with a little smile. "He has his own room on the second floor. The other men sleep on the first floor, in the kitchen. Sometimes in the cupboard under the stairs."

It doesn't seem fair to Johanna that none of the men have beds and dressers, except Clarence, but deciding it isn't any of her business, she nods once and continues to glance around. The room is chilly and feels damp. Dimly lit, and with no pictures or decorations, no colors but white and gray, the attic is impersonal and lifeless. Auntie Nell would insist in putting a vase of daises on the dresser just to liven things up a bit.

"You'll meet them all tonight, I imagine," Flora continues, oblivious to the pang Johanna feels at the thought of her family. "We all gather in the Servants' Hall after our chores are finished." She pauses thoughtfully. "Are you any good at cards?"

For a moment, Johanna is too taken aback to answer but when Flora continues to stare at her expectantly, she nods and stutters out, "Y-yes, I play."

Flora smiles, pleased. "Then you'll be fine." She begins to edge toward the door. "Why don't you settle in and change into your uniform. I'll come fetch you in ten minutes, shall I?"

"Thank you," Johanna says, watching Flora turn and sweep out of the room, closing the door behind her. Turning to face the room again, she scowls at herself, wondering what had happened to her power of speech on the carriage ride to the Foster's. Since childhood, Johanna can remember her mother rubbing at her temples and pleading with her to be quiet for just a little while, but now, in her new surroundings, she feels as though she has lost all ability to speak - much like Friday in her favorite Daniel Defoe book. She only hopes she regains her love of chattering once she gets to know everyone. She has her doubts when she thinks of all the names she has to learn, and the duties she has to perform. It makes unease flutter wildly in her stomach. She wonders idly if Friday had felt so faint at the thought of learning English.

It seems daunting now, but she will not be deterred. This job is not for her; this job is for her family, for Auntie Nell. They need the extra income, and Johanna will do anything within her power to get it. If she thought staying at the pie shop would be of help, she would be there now, flipping the sign to open and preparing to serve the morning customers, or singing a silly nursery rhyme with Auntie Nell and giggling at her father's stoic expression.

In the silence of the attic room, still clutching her carpet bag, Johanna feels an aching loneliness come over her so suddenly it takes her breath away. The house is too quiet, too unfamiliar, too big, too expensive, too _not like her own_. Johanna flushes deep scarlet, ashamed of herself and feeling like a simple country child. It hasn't even been two hours, and she misses her family.

How on earth will she survive this?

The goodbyes had been painful. Still wounded from their argument, her mother had been distant, stiffly hugging her goodbye and telling her to remember her manners before turning away, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Father hadn't said much either, but he'd look oddly choked, as though he wanted to say something meaningful and important but hadn't quite known how to open his mouth and say it. Instead, he'd settled for wrapping his arms around her when she flung herself at him, and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

_Auntie Nell_. Saying goodbye to her had been the hardest - while Johanna had hated to leave her mother because Lucy was so against her going, and she was only just beginning to get to know her father, Auntie Nell has been her friend, her mother, her everything for as long as Johanna can remember. Standing outside the pie shop, Johanna had regarded her aunt silently, feeling very much like crying and running into her arms, promising to never leave for as long as she lived. As if she understood perfectly, Auntie Nell had smiled bravely through moist eyes, drawing her close and stroking her yellow hair. With all the seriousness of a priest delivering a benediction, she'd whispered into Johanna's ear,_ "Get your cheeky lit'le arse into that carriage and make me proud, my love."_

Johanna smiles indulgently to the empty room, knowing only Auntie Nell could make her burst out laughing when she wanted to cry. Blinking away tears, she sets to work folding her linens neatly into the drawer set aside for her. It's silly, how nostalgic she has suddenly become. On the carriage ride and standing in the foyer, she had been so excited about the prospect of something new that she had barely been able to contain herself and she will not lose that feeling now. This is an experience, something she might read in a book and certainly something to tell Auntie Nell about when she sees her.

Lifting a photograph from her bag and tucking it safely under the clothes in her drawer, Johanna squares her shoulders. The sooner she can focus her mind on her work, rather than her family, the better.

--

Silence.

Never, not once in all her life, has Eleanor Lovett had to face the sound of deafening silence at ten in the morning. Growing up with brothers who rose with the sun to play, wrestle and dirty their clothes hadn't left much time for solitude. When she left home, she moved to Fleet Street with Albert and opened her pie shop, where costumers were coming in as early as eight to get a pie and a cup of tea. It wasn't long until the Barkers moved in, and their darling child made sure no one slept past sunrise and as Johanna grew, she required help dressing, stories, and companionship. Nellie's life has been one long, endless array of noise - chaotic, jubilant, wonderful noise.

Now, sitting in the empty pie shop, staring morosely out the window at the busy street, silence reigns supreme. Johanna is gone. She had expected it, mentally steeled herself, but now that the day has arrived, she realizes all her preparation had been for naught. She still feels like falling to pieces.

Johanna hadn't wanted to go, when the time came. She could see the fear in the girl's eyes as they stood outside by the carriage - her bag already stowed away and the driver waiting with the most polite impatience Nellie has ever seen. For a fleeting moment, Eleanor had wanted to say that she could stay home, that she didn't have to live somewhere else and work for strangers. She had been tempted to take Johanna by the shoulders and plead with her to stay, to come inside, have a cup of tea and forget this silly business. Only for a moment, and then she had realized that Johanna needed her to be strong, to give her the push she needed - like a mother prodding her baby bird from the nest so it can learn to fly. Johanna needed her to let go the way Lucy has never been able to. So she had.

Shifting her gaze from the street to the bottle of gin in front of her, Eleanor sighs and taps the table with her fingers. Usually, by this time, she would be cleaning the house with Johanna, both of them carrying around dusty rags and buckets, getting more soapy water on themselves than anything else. After they were finished, they would head to the market in hopes of finding decent fruit or low-priced material for Johanna and Lucy to use for their sewing.

Nellie has never had the patience for sewing or knitting, unable to focus on the task long enough to excel at it and usually becoming so frustrated she pawns off the remainder of her work to Johanna, who would always finish it for her - with much more patience and skill than Nellie could ever hope to attain. She wonders briefly who will complete her half-finished gloves and scarves now. Lucy might have, once, before all this nonsense began between them. She would have given Eleanor a look and chided her about finishing the things she begins, but she would have done it. Now, with their arguments accumulating and Eleanor's increasing frustration with Lucy's inability to move past what once was, she doubts things will ever be the same between them.

Eleanor sighs again, louder this time, and she hears movement in the parlor. Mr. Todd has been in there - washing down his loneliness with gin - since Johanna climbed into her carriage and stuck her hand out the window to wave goodbye. Lucy had left for work soon after Johanna had gone, and she still hasn't said a word to Nellie. Whether or not she is speaking to her husband, Nellie cannot tell. She feels even sorrier for Mr. Todd than she does for herself. He had just begun getting to know his daughter and now she is gone. The only person left in the house who will look at him without flinching is his landlady.

Feeling a flash of annoyance with herself, Eleanor huffs to the empty shop. It's pathetic, the way she's sitting here, moping about just because Johanna is no longer around to keep her company every moment of the day. She's a grown woman, for heaven's sake, and she will find some other way to occupy her time. Johanna had wanted this and Eleanor wants nothing more than for her to be happy. Johanna has a few hours to come home on Sundays, and that will just have to do. To sit here and reminisce is to become Lucy, and that is something Eleanor simply will not stand for.

Jaw set, Eleanor stands, smoothing her skirts and picking up her glass of gin. Footsteps light, she makes her way into the parlor, where Mr. Todd sits motionlessly on the settee, gazing into the fire. It makes her anxious, to be alone with him and she can't quite explain why. She has spent two nights sitting up with him until sunrise and yet being in the parlor with him makes her feel like jumping out of her skin. Something about the light of day bares before him, leaves her more vulnerable without the darkness to hide the adoration in her eyes.

Swallowing, she sinks down onto the armchair across from him, gin cupped in her hands on her lap. Mr. Todd doesn't look up or otherwise acknowledge her presence, but she knows better than to expect anything of the sort by now. Instead of waiting for him to say something, she sighs. Mr. Todd doesn't notice.

She frowns, wondering not for the first time about what goes on in his mind that holds him so far from the grasp of reality. He clenches his glass of gin in one hand, and loosely holds his razor in the other. Eyes narrowed, Mr. Todd looks the very picture of concentration and Eleanor feels her throat constrict as she continues to watch him.

She sighs once more, so loud it's nearly a huff of annoyance, and Mr. Todd flinches, glancing up at her. Offering him a patient smile, Eleanor says, "Look at the two of us, feelin' sorry for ourselves just cause Johanna found 'erself a proper job. Quite a sorry sight, eh?"

Mr. Todd stares, obviously waiting for her to make her point.

Keeping her voice light, Eleanor continues, "What say we pop out for a tick and walk to the market, Mr. T? Johanna usually comes with me, but I don't think that'll be 'appenin' much anymore."

Going to the market will not only give Mr. Todd something to do, it will keep her thoughts from dwelling on the child she just lost. The last bit of dependence Johanna had on her is gone; she doesn't need her aunt anymore. It's a depressing thought - not being needed. Eleanor watches Mr. Todd blink at her, quite aware that her expression borders on begging and unable to bring herself to care much if it will get him to accompany her. She doesn't think she can handle being alone today.

Mr. Todd averts his eyes, as though he might break under the pressure of her gaze and shakes his head. "I don't like the market, Mrs. Lovett." Attention back on his razor, Mr. Todd proceeds to ignore her. He nearly always has that razor in his hand - she has rarely seen him without it since she gave it to him that night. It looks natural in his palm, as though it should always be there, as though it belongs.

Eyeing the way it shines in the light of the fire, Eleanor considers whether or not he might like to use it for something, rather than merely stare at it all day. Perhaps opening his shop again might do him some good, give him a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning and get some sleep at night. With a bit of clever advertising, he could have just as many customers as he used to and his shop is just sitting up there, vacant and waiting for him.

"Mr. T, I've been thinkin'..." She trails off, wondering if he's even listening until his eyes dart up to hers briefly. "Maybe you should open up your shop again - change of pace might do you good, love. And the market would be the perfect place to advertise your business , what with that bloody Eye-talian always lurkin' about."

He grunts noncommitally but makes no further effort to respond.

Resisting the pressing urge to sigh again, Eleanor narrows her eyes. "Did you know," she says cheerily, as if continuing the conversation, "that I could 'ide the gin someplace obscure and it'd take you _days _to find it?" She flashes him a sweet smile. "But you like tea, don't you, Mr. Todd?"

For a moment, as he stares incredulously at her, she thinks he might use her for target practice for daring to threaten him. But then he surprises her - the corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest of smiles, a minute expression of amusement so brief she almost misses it. Eyeing her seriously for a second longer, Mr. Todd nods once and inquires in a resigned tone, "An Italian?"

She smiles.

--

Sweeney Todd loathes the market - it is loud, smelly and peopled with crooks. If he had any choice in the matter at all, he would still be in Mrs. Lovett's parlor, sitting quietly with his gin. However, if he had stayed, he's fairly certain that Mrs. Lovett would have made good on her threat to hide away every bit of alcohol she possessed. He has no doubt that she would have hidden it so well it would have taken him weeks to locate it. His landlady had given him no real choice in the matter.

Occasionally, as they walk side-by-side through the market stalls, Mrs. Lovett will be pressed into his side by the jostling crowd, the hat on top of her head bumping his chin, and Sweeney has a nagging feeling that he is lying to himself. While he hates to step out into the city, he could have easily gone out to obtain his own alcohol. Lucy keeps a purse of money lying out on the coffee table in the living room. Truthfully, he isn't sure why he had agreed to accompany Mrs. Lovett to the market - maybe because she had peered at him through those strangely soulful brown eyes with such intensity, looking for all the world like she had just lost her very best friend. In a way, he supposes she had.

A colorful display of scarves attracts Mrs. Lovett's attention and breaking off mid-sentence, she veers off to the right, without waiting for him to follow. Frowning after her, Sweeney keeps his eyes on her hat - which he suspects is somehow keeping all of her curls from falling around her face - so as not to lose her in the crowd, and makes his way to her. She stands before the booth, ignoring the man reciting prices to her, fiddling with a velvet scarf of bright red.

Without turning around to even check if he is behind her, Mrs. Lovett addresses him, "What do you think of this, Mr. T?" She puts it up to her hair, as though comparing the different shades of scarlet. "Too red?"

He isn't quite sure what she means by 'too red' so he remains silent and she continues to chatter happily without his input. Sweeney has learned very quickly that Mrs. Lovett doesn't need anyone to carry on a conversation - she just likes having someone near so it doesn't look like she's talking to herself. While Mrs. Lovett struggles with her decision concerning the scarf, Sweeney scans the crowd around them with disinterest, willing to look anywhere else if it will prevent her from asking him more questions about color and her hair.

"Don't know what I'd do with it anyway," she finally says, arranging the scarf neatly back where she found it, but Sweeney is no longer paying her any mind because right at that moment, he spots a lone man making his way through with crowd with a simpering smile and a walking stick.

Beadle Bamford.

That filthy, greasy, foul rat that always follows behind Turpin like an eager puppy.

Sweeney can perfectly recall that moment in the flower market, watching with dawning horror as he was dragged away - Turpin touching Lucy with his disgusting hands, the beadle lingering behind with his slimy grin. Without thinking, his hand instantly flies to the razor concealed in his coat pocket. He feels a low growl rumbling in his chest, and how Mrs. Lovett hears it over the din of the market is a mystery to him but she turns sharply to look at him, startled.

Eyes quickly scanning the crowd to follow his line of vision, her brown eyes widen at the sight of Bamford. With remarkable calm, her eyes alight on the hand he has slipped into his pocket and she rests a gentle hand on his arm. "Easy, love," she murmurs, firmly pulling his hand from his pocket.

Sweeney lets her, suddenly numb. What had just happened? Had he really been about to take a razor to Beadle Bamford in the middle of a crowded market? The only thing he can recall is the irresistible image of the beadle bleeding out like a stuck pig all over the mucky ground. Sweeney feels his breath leave him and struggles against the urge to turn and run. He thought he hadn't forgotten what it was like to be among civilized people but maybe his memory really is failing him. He shudders to think of what he might have done if not for Mrs. Lovett's prescience.

Tugging on his arm, Mrs. Lovett sighs patiently as though chiding a little boy for misbehaving. "Can't take my eyes off you for one minute, you great brute," she grumbles. "We should really be gettin' you out of the house more often - just so you know what is and what ain't acceptable in the middle of the bloody market! Come on now, I'll take you to see the Eye-talian. Bloody 'orrible man but I can't say the same for 'is business."

Abandoning the scarves, much to the chagrin of the man selling them, Mrs. Lovett leads Sweeney to a battered-looking wagon where a large group of people are gathering. On the makeshift stage, a boy with long blonde hair carts around a drum, loudly proclaiming the wonders of Pirelli's Miracle Elixir. It's a showy display, but Mrs. Lovett looks around at their surroundings dully, as though she has witnessed the scene more times than she cares to remember and can't possibly bring herself to watch once more.

For the first time, Sweeney begins to feel anxious. Shaving is nearly an art form. It takes a skillful, steady hand and deep concentration; he cannot be certain he is very adept at either anymore. Shaving himself is another matter entirely, and he can't help but imagine cutting his first customer to ribbons beneath his blade.

The imagery brings to mind what had nearly happened with the beadle and Sweeney tunes out the child on stage as he remembers the way he had instinctively closed his fingers around his razor. He had been about to draw it out, as if slicing another man's neck in the middle of St. Dunstan's market was the most commonplace thing in the world. Perhaps Mrs. Lovett had been right after all - he does spend an awful lot of time cooped up in the pie shop. Maybe it's finally starting to affect him. Something to occupy his mind during the day while Lucy is at work might be just the thing he needs. It doesn't matter if he remembers how to shave another man; he will relearn, if it will please Lucy.

So, when the boy begins to pass around bottles of the strange yellow liquid - the elixir of Sweeney's competition - he clears his throat and murmurs loud enough for others to hear, "Pardon me, ma'am, what's that awful stench?"

Mrs. Lovett's grin is brief but so delighted that Sweeney can't find it within himself to care that nearly every person in the rather substantial crowd has their attention focused on him. The feeling in his chest is strange, almost light-hearted, and he can't remember the last time he experienced such a sensation.

"Bloody brilliant, Mr. T," she whispers and then continues in a louder voice, "Must be standing near an open trench." She waves her hand in front of her face and wrinkles her nose in disdain. Taking the bottle from the man next to her and sniffing carefully, she cringes, nearly gagging. "What is this?"

Sweeney leans closer to catch the scent just as Mrs. Lovett turns to look at him and their noses nearly collide. Too stunned to move, Sweeney can only stare at her, watching her expression morph into one of quiet shock. However, she doesn't seem to mind their closeness, peering up at him through twinkling brown eyes. Standing so near, Sweeney realizes how small she truly is. Overwhelmed, he quickly jerks away, but Mrs. Lovett doesn't so much as blush, holding up the bottle for him to smell. Still mortified, he sniffs half-heartedly, and grimaces at the stench. "Smells like piss."

Pleased with his response, Mrs. Lovett looks as if she might burst out laughing at any moment and turns to the gentleman next to them. "Wouldn't touch it if I was you, dear."

The curtains concealing the entrance to the wagon rustle briefly before a tall man dressed in a bright blue suit, a cape and a top hat steps out with a flourish. He reminds Sweeney of the men at the carnival Lucy had dragged them all to - outlandish, boisterous and bizarre . At the same time, something about this man stirs his memory, like a long-forgotten face of the past he cannot quite grasp.

When Sweeney wagers his razor against five pounds that Pirelli - barber of kings - is no match for his own talents, Signor Pirelli leans close to examine his razor and Sweeney gets the chance to briefly study the man's face up close. His features are alarmingly familiar, but he still cannot place where he has seen the man before. Shaking off the odd feeling, Sweeney asks Beadle Bamford to judge and tries not to let his disgust show when the man steps forth with a leer, as if he had suspected all along that he would be needed.

As the contest begins, all thoughts of Pirelli's unsettling familiarity is forgotten - _everything _is forgotten. Sweeney is wholly unaware of the enraptured audience or the Italian's ramblings, or even the grimace of the little orphan boy as Pirelli's razor slices his fingers. Later, he may recall the face of the man he shaved, or Mrs. Lovett's smirking face in the crowd, but in the moment, he is only aware of the razor in his hand. It is the first time he has shaved another human being in fifteen years, and it feels no different than it had then. His hand does not even tremble. The process is almost soothing - the quick strokes of the blade, the way it sings as it slices through stubble and shaving cream, how perfectly his fingers fits around the engraved handle.

Shaving was something Benjamin had always been able to do exceptionally well and Sweeney realizes with startling clarity that it is the one thing he never lost. He had forgotten how to hold a normal conversation, how to make his own tea, that attacking men in a public place is socially unacceptable, but he has never forgotten what to do with the elegant blade in his hand.

It takes only seconds to finish the shave and over the sound of applause, Sweeney's eyes find Mrs. Lovett, where she stands holding his coat over her arm and grinning. Head tilted to the side, red curls falling from her hat and pins, she looks as triumphant as he feels - almost as if she had secretly known all along that he hadn't lost his gift. Knowing Mrs. Lovett, she probably had. Sweeney sole wish is Lucy could have been here to watch; it might give her hope to know that not every part of Benjamin has been destroyed - mutilated and twisted into something darker, something ugly.

As Mrs. Lovett drapes his coat over his shoulders and says, "Bloody good job, Mr. T," he doesn't feel like Benjamin Barker was such a tragic loss, or his own existence such a misfortune. The feeling only comes over him in his landlady's presence and Sweeney cannot help but wonder why Lucy never makes him feel quite so wanted.

--

In her life, Johanna has worn her fair share of hideous things for the sake of fashion - more often than not at her mother's insistence. She will never forget that horrid, frilly concoction she had been forced to wear for her fourteenth birthday, nor will she ever rid herself of the memory of Auntie Nell's muffled giggles at the sight of the monstrosity. But never, in all her young years, has Johanna been forced to wear something she loathed quite so much as her new uniform.

It's a black frock with a high neck collar, an itching thing that Johanna cannot stop tugging at irritably. Over her dress is a white apron that she just knows she will have trouble keeping clean and an odd little matching white hat sits jauntily atop her head, which is forever falling down her forehead and forcing her to shove it back into its rightful place. However, the uniform does help her to blend in and she feels less like an outsider now that she looks like she belongs with the rest of the household staff.

Johanna has yet to meet everyone on the Foster's payroll; once she had changed into her uniform, Flora had given a very brief tour in which Johanna encountered no one but another maid - a quiet girl named Ivy - and the cook - a rotund, boisterous man called Harry. When Flora took her into the kitchen to begin preparations for tea time, Johanna had also met Ruth, a girl roughly Flora's age and just a few years older than Johanna.

While Flora and Ruth prepare the tea, Johanna nervously fiddles with her hat and waits for them to hand her the silver tray. This will be her first official duty as maid - to serve tea to Mr. Foster and his guest in the parlor.

"Just remember," Flora says quietly, "speak only when you are spoken to and for heaven's sake, stop shaking so! You're going to rattle the teacups!"

Placing the delicate china on the intricate platter, Ruth smothers a laugh and tucks a wayward piece of mousy brown hair back into her own cap. "You drop this tray you can wave goodbye to your wages, dear." She places the tray in Johanna's arms. "Go on now, Mr. Foster'll be waiting."

Johanna stares at them, wide-eyed and clutching the tray.

Suddenly, she doesn't feel quite adequate to serve tea. When she had been given the job, she thought herself the luckiest girl in the world. After all, what simpleton couldn't serve tea or polish candlesticks? But now, with a wealthy lawyer and his equally well-disposed companion chatting just down the hall, chatting in their crisp, well-bred accents and waiting for her to pour their tea without trembling or saying a word, things seem far more complicated.

When has she _ever _been able to stop speaking? How can she possibly go out there shaking like a leaf and hundreds of words in her head just waiting to be spoken to anyone who might listen? She had been off her rocker to accept such a disciplined job. _Why _hadn't she agreed to stay home and wait a few years to begin working in the dress shop with her mother?

_Because you can barely stand to be around your mother the few hours of the day she is home - how could you possibly manage working with her all day, watching your every move and never letting you make a mistake? _

Still, she cannot stop trembling. The teacup is clattering noisily with the saucer and Mr. Foster is waiting. Exchanging understanding, exasperated glances, Flora and Ruth look at her pityingly. Flora steps forward and steadies the tray with slender hands, looking directly into Johanna's eyes. "Keep the tray upright, pour the tea without spilling it all over Mr. Foster's lap, do not speak and come directly back here when you are finished, understand?"

Johanna nods frantically. "Yes, but - "

"No speaking," Flora interrupts sternly. "Hold you tongue."

"I can't - " Johanna begins but Flora narrows her pale blue eyes, silencing her.

Flora smiles. "Much better. Now go before Mr. Foster has to come looking for you."

Breathing in deeply and squaring her shoulders, Johanna tightens her grip on the tray and hopes her sweaty palms do not ruin this for her. As she steps into the hallway, Mr. Foster's voice can be clearly heard from the parlor just down the hall and Johanna struggles to keep her footsteps light so as not to interrupt them. There is so much to remember about proper etiquette that she doubts she could possibly remember it all if she had not spend much of her life memorizing facts and passages in books.

In the parlor, Mr. Foster sits in a maroon armchair dressed in a smoking jacket, a pipe protruding from his mouth as he stares rather amusedly at his companion. Mr. Foster is younger than most lawyers Johanna has encounter or read about, with his brown hair falling to his ears and neatly arranged, his sarcastic smile and his ironic tone of voice. He is effortlessly charming and Johanna had understood immediately why he had become so successful in his profession.

Approaching the small table before the two men, Johanna is able to forget about her nerves momentarily and get a good look at Mr. Foster's guest. Dressed expensively in a long coat and tailored trousers, the man is older than her employer, with grey hair and stubbly cheeks. Though he has a rather long nose, Johanna realizes as he speaks, that his voice must be his most noticeable quality. It's a deep voice, almost nasally, and effortlessly arrogant.

For reasons she doesn't understand herself, Johanna feels a shiver of revulsion make its way up her spine. Swallowing, she ignores the strange feeling and places the tea tray quietly on the table to set about pouring a cup for each gentlemen. As she picks up the steaming teapot, the man stops speaking to Mr. Foster and glances at her.

"Ah," he says quietly and Johanna fights another wave of unexplainable disgust. "I thought I had met all the maids in your household, Charles, and yet I've never seen this lovely young lady before."

Mr. Foster raises an eyebrow, pulling his pipe from his mouth only long enough to say, "I am glad of it, Edmund. I would be worried if you had seen her here before today - she is a new addition."

Feeling her hand becoming unsteady under the scrutinizing gaze of Mr. Foster's guest, Johanna grits her teeth and forces herself to ignore the heat of his gaze on her face. Carefully placing Mr. Foster's tea and saucer on the table in front of him, Johanna purses her lips to contain all the words just waiting to spill out. She has not been raised to allow a man to look upon her as though she were an idle amusement or a fine thing to be admired like a painted doll. However, Johanna can only ignore him, keeping her eyes downcast and swallowing the slowly simmering indignation.

She pours the man his cup of tea and he watches intently as she places it on the table in front of him, his eyes slowly tracing her face. "Tell me, child," he says, looking perplexed. "You are strangely familiar to me. What is your name?"

Biting back a sharp retort, Johanna straightens, smoothing her apron and stepping back from the table. "Johanna Barker," she says steadily, desperately wanting to raise her eyes and glare at him. Decorum forbids it, so instead, Johanna glances swiftly at him out of the corner of her eye just in time to see the man light up with something akin to recognition.

Mr. Foster blows a puff of smoke into the air and taps his pipe, ash falling onto his smoking jacket. "That will be all, Johanna," he says with a soft sigh. "You are excused."

Nodding and giving a brief curtsey, Johanna scurries from the room, walking down the hall as quickly as would be considered proper. For some reason, the way this man had ogled her unnerves her, as though he had been looking at her and seeing someone else entirely. Halfway down the corridor, Johanna hears Mr. Foster's amused laugh. "Just wait until I tell all the men at the billiard room that the great, honorable Judge Turpin goes around scaring young maids half out of their wits just because he thinks he might recognize them. Honestly, Edmund..."

Whatever else Mr. Foster had been about to say is cut off as Johanna enters the kitchen and shuts the door silently behind her. Still shaking, she leans against the door and puts a hand lightly to her chest, struggling to catch her breath.

Standing at the table, waiting for her, Flora and Ruth watch her carefully. "Did you drop anything?" Ruth asks suspiciously. "Break a dish? Spill something?"

Johanna shakes her head wordlessly.

"You did it properly, then?"

She nods.

Flora regards her fondly. "You see? That wasn't so terrible."

Grumbling to herself when Johanna continues to stare at them with frightened eyes, Ruth says, "Quit gaping, dear! Come on now, I'll show you how to make up the beds."

Johanna follows Ruth up the servant's staircase, heart still pounding wildly.

--

When he returned from the market with Mrs. Lovett, who insisted on bringing him up to his old shop to set about arranging things for its reopening, Sweeney had expected to find a decrepit, aged room covered in fifteen years worth of dust. Although the wallpaper is faded and the cradle that once sat in the corner so he could watch Johanna as he worked is gone, everything else is just the same - a shrine to a dead man.

He hasn't quite managed to bring himself to move past the doorway, but Mrs. Lovett stands in the middle of the room, hands on her hips as she surveys the damage time has done. Eyeing the faded walls critically, she murmurs almost to herself, "Bit gloomy in 'ere but nothin' a bit of cheery wallpaper and a few daisies won't fix, I s'pose."

She continues to mutter to herself and Sweeney does nothing to stop her, staring curiously into the room but not troubling himself to actually step inside. He can almost imagine the room still looks the way it did years ago - rays of sunshine streaming into the room and bathing it in light, the striped wallpaper Lucy had spent all day putting up, the chair by the magnificent window where she would sometimes sit and watch him work. He remembers how nervous it used to make him when Lucy would watch him shave his customers, the way he always blushed and had a difficult time keeping his hand steady. The room reminds him too much of himself now, a corpse with nothing but happy memories.

"Mr. T?"

Sweeney blinks, shifting his gaze from the scratched wooden floors to where Mrs. Lovett stands, watching him expectantly.

"Aren't you goin' to come in, silly thing?"

He hesitates, shifting closer but pausing to glance around again.

Mrs. Lovett smirks. "Nothin' to be afraid of, love."

Unamused by her gentle tease, Sweeney scowls but steps through the doorway, unsettled by the hollow sound of his boots on the aged floorboards. He peers around silently, ignoring the way Mrs. Lovett beams at him as if he were a child who has just taken its very first step on its own. "It's...clean."

Rather obvious, but it _is_ puzzling.

Mrs. Lovett glances away, turning to trail her fingers idly over the window pane, and Sweeney is almost certain he had seen a blush upon her cheeks before she turned her back to him. "Well," she says softly. "I gave the place a bit of a polish every so often through the years..."

He frowns. "How often?"

This time, Mrs. Lovett is the one to hesitate. "Nearly once every three months."

Not for the first time, Sweeney is astounded by the sheer magnitude of Mrs. Lovett's faith in his return. To slip away a razor just in case he might come back is one thing, but to continually enter this room every three months for fifteen years to wipe away dust, clean the windows and scrub the floors is utterly baffling - a level of belief so extreme it is usually associated with religion. If only Lucy's faith in him had been so strong.

The quiet between them is beginning to stretch, and unused to lengthy silences, Mrs. Lovett clears her throat delicately and continues, "Johanna 'elped me, once she was old enough. I used to scrub the floors while she polished your dresser and cleaned the windows."

Speaking of Johanna brings an odd tone to Mrs. Lovett's voice and Sweeney watches intently as the baker stares out the broad window and presses her hand to the glass. Thinking over her words, his brow furrows. Mrs. Lovett and Johanna had come up here, but where had Lucy been while they kept his shop in order? "Lucy didn't - "

"She didn't like bein' in 'ere, love," Mrs. Lovett interrupts quietly. "Didn't much like Johanna comin' up 'ere either, but I was stubborn." Abruptly whirling away from the window, Mrs. Lovett sighs. "Well, not much to do up 'ere, is there? Just add a bit of color. Course, you'll need a chair. My Albert's old chair might do nicely until we can afford a new one." She looks at him, obviously waiting for his approval.

Sweeney nods mutely, still stunned by his discoveries.

Mrs. Lovett smiles. "Smashing."

A sharp rap of knuckles against glass startles them both and Mrs. Lovett turns to glare at the door with a hand over her heart. Through the glass, they can make out the eye-catching blue of Pirelli's suit. "The Eye-talian...What's _'e_ doin' 'ere?"

For some inexplicable reason, Sweeney feels a strange sinking in his stomach, a dread for something to come. He doesn't know what it is, but he knows it has something to do with the familiarity of the other barber, the face he cannot put a name to. When Sweeney doesn't move to answer the door, Mrs. Lovett huffs and strides forward, wrenching it open with an uncivil sniff.

"Well, come in then," she says, and Pirelli steps into the room, his fur cape billowing behind him. Mrs. Lovett rolls her eyes, shutting the door behind him. "What can we do for you, sir?"

Pirelli ignores her, taking off his top hat, eyes on Sweeney. "Meester Sweeney Todd."

The dread has only intensified, but Sweeney manages to reply with contempt, "Signor Pirelli."

Nodding in acknowledgment, Pirelli begins to glance around with a scrutinizing eye. "Yes, this'll do nicely," he murmurs his approval, taking a full turn about the room with his gloved hands behind his back. "Very nicely."

Mrs. Lovett's eyebrows raise a fraction and Sweeney realizes that Pirelli has dropped his Italian accent, sounding decidedly more English. It only fuels the anxiety pooling in the pit of Sweeney's stomach.

Still gazing at him in disbelief, Mrs. Lovett asks, "You come 'ere for somethin' particular, Signor Pirelli?"

Finally looking at her, Pirelli begins to tug at his white gloves. "I'd like my five quid back, if you don't mind."

Staring at him as if he has lost his marbles, Mrs. Lovett nearly scoffs. "What the bloody 'ell for?"

"Because Mr. Todd entered into our little wager under false pretenses," Pirelli explains slowly, watching Mrs. Lovett with a hint of condescension. "He might remember to be more forthright in the future." Turning swiftly from Mrs. Lovett, as though finished speaking to her and therefore rendering her invisible, Pirelli focuses his calculating gaze on Sweeney. "I'll be taking half your profits from herewith. Share and share alike..._Mr. Benjamin Barker_."

For a moment, no one moves. Mrs. Lovett's eyes, wild and frantic beneath her calm exterior, find Sweeney's. In that singular instant, that millisecond in which Mrs. Lovett's eyes are the only thing he focuses on, Sweeney doesn't feel the overwhelming panic that he knows he should be feeling. He only feels a sense of composure, a feeling that nothing else could possibly matter any more than how deeply warm her gaze is. He has always found her eyes compelling, but now, with sudden clarity, he partly understands why. Mrs. Lovett has eyes the color of chestnut, of chocolate and heartache. He never noticed before.

"You might say you was an inspiration to me."

Blinking, Sweeney focuses once more on the sound of Pirelli's voice, wrenching his gaze from Mrs. Lovett but his mind still reeling.

Pirelli sits at the oversized trunk beneath the window, his knees drawn up awkwardly and suddenly Sweeney remembers. Davey Connor - the young boy he had hired for a couple of weeks in the summer to sweep up hair. A bright, obedient lad that Benjamin had enjoyed having around. Always so eager to help, _"Can I do anything else for you today, Mr. Barker?"_ He used to sit right where he is now, under the window, his gaze enraptured as he watched Benjamin work.

Swallowing, Sweeney wonders how he could possibly forget the way Davey used to hungrily stare at his razors, shining in their box. Davey always loved tracing the handles. And then Sweeney remembers the way Pirelli had leaned so close to stare at the razor he'd held up before the crowd. Pirelli had remembered the razors.

"So have we got a deal?" Pirelli stands, leisurely making his way to where Sweeney stands, frozen, in the middle of the room. "Or should I run down the street to my old pal, Beadle Bamford?"

How could he have been so careless? His razors - gleaming, resplendent and intricately carved - are not easily forgotten. They are not cheap imitations, but one of a kind creations that Davey Connor has remembered all his life. He'll go to the law. They'll drag him back - back to Botany Bay. Away from his family - away from Lucy, Johanna, Mrs. Lovett...

The searing sun, the scorching dirt under his bare feet, the back-breaking weight, the whip, the screams in the night...The razor is in his pocket and before he knows what he's doing, Sweeney has drawn it out and flipped it open, the cool silver warming in the strength of his grip. He won't go. He'll hang himself before he ever steps foot on that godforsaken hell ever again -

Davey Connor falls limply to the floor like a child's unwanted rag doll and for a moment, Sweeney can only manage to blink at his unconscious form. Slowly, his eyes move up to the booted feet, traveling up black skirts to stare the tea kettle hanging loosely from Mrs. Lovett's hand. Chest heaving, eyes wide, Mrs. Lovett stares at him crossly.

Sweeney opens his mouth wordlessly, not quite sure what to say but suddenly faced with the very real, very twisted desire to laugh.

Letting the tea kettle slip from her slack fingers, Mrs. Lovett doesn't even flinch as it clatters to the floorboards right next to Pirelli's head. "What the bloody 'ell do you think you're doin', Mr. T?"

Realizing she is staring rather fixedly at his hand, Sweeney glances down and realizes he still holds the razor, poised to lash out. He slowly lowers his hand, scowling. The same instinct had come over him in the market at the sight of Beadle Bamford. It had been rage that drove him then, but this had been nothing short of sheer panic. "I have to," he says quietly, alternating his gaze from Mrs. Lovett to Pirelli and back again.

"Have to what?" She hisses incredulously, as though someone might hear. "Attack the man with a bleedin' _razor_?"

Instead of biting back his sharp retort, Sweeney snaps, "What do you suggest we do, Mrs. Lovett? Let him escort me back to Botany Bay himself?"

Mrs. Lovett huffs - a sound somewhere between exasperation and hysteria. "Ruddy bloomin' _'ell_," she swears, turning away and running a hand through her tousled curls. "Davey Connor. Never thought I'd see 'im again..."

Puzzled, Sweeney eyes the back of her head with a frown. "You remember him?"

"Course I do." She scoffs, gesturing to the space beneath the window. "Used to sit over there for hours, watchin' you work like you was the blood saint of barberin'." Slowly, Mrs. Lovett pivots on her heel to stare down at the motionless form of the former Davey Connor. After a moment in which she seems to be contemplating something very seriously, she sets her jaw and nods. "Ain't no other way, I s'pose. You'll 'ave to...polish 'im off, Mr. T."

It won't be the first time - Botany Bay had provided numerous opportunities to either murder, or be skinned alive yourself. Benjamin had learned very quickly what he would need to do to survive in a place like the penal colony and until now, Sweeney had begun to think civilization to be far more advanced. However, he is slowly coming to realize that the distinctions between polite society and desperate savages is not so significant after all.

All are desperate to survive, willing to do anything to protect themselves and their things. Only the things themselves differ - in exile, the most vital things to protect are food, shelter, water, a sharp weapon. In civilization, the most important things to maintain survival are fine clothes, jewelry, money. Emerged in London society once more, Sweeney Todd has come to realize that he has escaped one hell only to find another.

Sliding the blade open once more, slowly and deliberately, Sweeney turns dark eyes on Mrs. Lovett and orders softly, "Turn around." He expects her to refuse, to reply in some tart fashion, but Mrs. Lovett only purses her lips and turns to face the opposite wall. Sweeney crouches beside Signor Pirelli, no longer seeing the Italian barber, but the innocent face of a child.

"_Can I do anything else for you today, Mr. Barker?" _

It's over in an instant, with only a splash of red and a faint gurgling as Davey Connor's blood spills over the wooden floorboards. As if sensing the deed is done, Mrs. Lovett glances over her shoulder, only turning completely around when Sweeney nods. She grimaces as she studies the scene before her.

"All that blood," she says, looking morbidly transfixed. "Poor bugger." She fixes her attention on Sweeney, sitting back on his haunches beside the corpse. "You alright, Mr. T?"

He nods, methodically wiping the blade clean on his bloody shirt.

Mrs. Lovett sighs. "Well then, 'elp me put the bloke in the trunk till nightfall."

"Nightfall?" Sweeney frowns, glancing up from the razor.

Mrs. Lovett's smug grin seems entirely out of place. "Course, silly thing. Can't leave 'im in there to rot." She steps closer to the body, moving to take Pirelli's arms. "We'll toss 'im in the Thames once Lucy's asleep tonight, eh?"

Together, they drag Pirelli to the trunk under the window, leaving a bloody smear across the floor in the process. Mrs. Lovett manages to carry Pirelli and complain about all the blood at the same time. "Oh, and just look at your shirt. It'll be a bloody nightmare, washin' that stain out!" Then, when Sweeney has the lid to the trunk halfway shut, Mrs. Lovett stops him with a firm hand. "Wait!"

Sweeney watches with interest as she reaches inside, head down as she fiddles with Pirelli's outrageous waistcoat. Finally, she fishes out a red coin purse, smiling when she shakes it and hears coins jingle. Shrugging as she tucks it into her corset, she murmurs, "Waste not, want not."

Mrs. Lovett, Sweeney remembers, has always been eminently practical.

--

She couldn't lose him. Not again, not ever.

It had nearly killed her when Benjamin was taken; Johanna had been the only reason Eleanor felt the need to get out of bed every morning. Losing him again, without the responsibility of caring for a child to keep her going, it's highly doubtful she would ever recover. The only person left to keep her company would be Lucy Barker, which isn't at all reassuring. How could she possibly lose him now, this man she finds so captivating that it's impossible to think of anything else when he's near? What would she be left with, if he were to disappear? So all in all, Eleanor doesn't feel quite as terrible as she should about Signor Pirelli's body stuffed into the trunk nearly six feet away from her.

In fact, she feels more emotional about the blood staining the hardwood floors of the barber shop. For the past hour, she has been on her hands and knees with Mr. Todd, scrubbing at the red-soaked floorboards. Her hair is falling into her eyes, her dress is sodden and wrinkled, and her fingers are pruning.

Exhaling loudly, she finally straightens, tossing her limp rag into the bucket of soapy water. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing lean, muscular forearms, Mr. Todd continues to scrub at a particularly stubborn stain, an intent expression on his face. Heart in her mouth, Nellie wonders how someone with wet pant legs, holding a blood-stained rag can possibly look so perfectly beautiful.

She doesn't realize she's staring until Mr. Todd glances up from the floor, tossing his rag aside. Nellie blinks, quickly averting her gaze to her nails, suddenly finding them endlessly fascinating. "I think we got it all, love." Mr. Todd wipes his hands on his pants, eyeing the room critically for anything they might have missed. "Now, you fetch Albert's chair from the parlor and I'll dump this water, eh?"

Mr. Todd frowns, opening his mouth to speak, but whatever he'd been about to say is lost because the sound of footsteps on the rickety stairs outside reach their ears. They turn simultaneously to stare at the door as a young voice calls out, " 'Ello? Signor Pirelli?"

Eleanor swears violently, hands clenching into fists. "The lad from the market."

Mr. Todd stares at her blankly.

"The street urchin," she rolls her eyes. " 'e'll be wonderin' where 'is master is, and what'll we say? Bloody soddin' - "

The door creaks open, jingling the bell overhead, and a young boy peers into the room. He's terribly malnourished, blonde hair falling into his sunken eyes and tattered clothes hanging off his skinny frame. Eleanor feels her heart swell at the sight of the poor thing. Every time she has ever seen the boy at the market, Pirelli had been abusing him in some way or another - kicking him around, slicing his fingers with a razor, pushing him off the wagon and sending the child sprawling into the dirt, wincing. The boy is undoubtedly better off now.

Blanching at the sight of two strangers sitting on the floor, the child stutters, "S-sorry but 'as Signor Pirelli left?"

Eleanor arranges her face into one of innocent ignorance. "Who'd you say, love?"

"Signor Pirelli, ma'am" the child clarifies, inching just inside the door. " 'e left me to clean up the wagon, said 'e was comin' 'ere. That was nearly two hours ago."

"I don't remember seein' 'im..." Turning to look at Mr. Todd, countenance utterly confused, Nellie asks, "Did Signor Pirelli drop by, Mr. T?"

Expression schooled into a concerned frown, Mr. Todd rumbles, "I'm sorry lad, I don't believe I've seen him. Are you sure he was coming here?"

The boy nods, perplexed. "Yes, sir. I dunno where 'e went off to, then."

"Well," Nellie smiles. "I'm sure 'e'll turn up sooner or later. What's your name, love?"

"Toby, ma'am."

Tilting her head slightly to the side and looking at the boy with a motherly affection Eleanor finds she doesn't have to fake, she says, "Toby. Why don't you 'op downstairs and fix yourself a nice pie and a tot of gin while you wait for your master, eh?"

Toby's eyes light up, his little face breaking into an enormous grin. "Really? Thank you, ma'am!"

He vanishes in an instant, thundering down the stairs and into the pie shop. Eleanor smiles when she hears the door slam below, glancing at Mr. Todd. "Looks like we got ourselves a guest, Mr. T." She gives a soft, wistful sigh. "With Johanna gone, I could certainly use 'is 'elp in the shop."

Mr. Todd grunts in response, rising swiftly to his feet. He turns to face the window, bracing his arm against the frame. She wonders if he feels the same pang of emptiness that comes over her at the mention of his darling girl.

"Do you think she's alright, Mr. T?" Eleanor asks softly, watching him. "Johanna, I mean. She's always been so bloody stubborn. Too stubborn to follow orders like a common maid."

After a moment in which Mr. Todd stares past the windowpane, his brow furrowed, he replies quietly, "I'm sure she's fine, Mrs. Lovett." He swallows, exhaling and fogging up the glass. "You raised her well."

Head spinning, Nellie merely stares at him, dumbfounded.

"Eleanor?"

Nellie bites back a groan. Lucy has returned from work.

"Eleanor?" Lucy peers around the doorway, a puzzled expression on her lovely face. "There's a young boy downstairs drinking your gin."

"Toby," Nellie corrects, pushing herself slowly to her feet and trying not to grimace at the pain in her back. "Looks like the lad's master abandoned 'im."

Before Eleanor can explain her idea of hiring him to help her around the shop, Lucy is already alternating a disapproving frown between the room and her husband. "Benjamin? What's all this?"

"Mr. T is startin' up 'is business again." Nellie smiles nervously, discreetly glancing around to make sure they have removed all traces of blood from the shop. Far from looking pleased at the idea, Lucy's frown only deepens. Nellie turns to Mr. Todd, seeing him rooted to the spot at his post by the window, staring fixedly at the vision of his wife standing in the doorway, strands of yellow hair framing her face sweetly. "That reminds me, love. Why don't you fetch Albert's chair from the parlor? It'll 'ave to do for now."

Lucy looks as if she is about to express her disapproval, and Eleanor doesn't want Mr. Todd around when it happens. The man doesn't need a reason not to open up his shop again - and if he knew Lucy didn't like the idea, he'd never go through with it. Besides, she can only bear that look of longing in his eyes when he looks at his wife for so long.

"Opening up his shop?" Lucy asks disbelievingly, once Mr. Todd has disappeared down the stairs.

Flexing and unflexing her fingers, Nellie says carefully, "It'll be good for 'im, Lucy."

Lucy shakes her head. "He's hardly fit to be around people."

"That's where you're wrong, love," Nellie snaps, quite unable to control herself. Lucy is only ever able to get under her skin this way when she speaks of adults as though they're children, unable to think for themselves. She watched her treat Johanna that way for years, she isn't about to let Lucy treat her husband the same way. "We made a trip to the market this afternoon, 'e was 'ardly uncontrollable. Stop talkin' 'bout your 'usband like 'e's a rabid dog."

Ignoring the remark, Lucy glances away, mouth twitching. "You got him to the market?" She laughs softly, humorlessly. "I can't get him to go anywhere with me."

Choosing not to reveal that she had only managed to get him to go by threatening to hide the gin, Eleanor hints, "Maybe you're not askin' the right way."

"No," Lucy shakes her head, leaning her head gently against the doorframe. "That isn't it. He wants nothing to do with me."

Lucy Barker is truly mad. Can't she see her husband worships her - would gladly do anything she requested in the blink of an eye? Eleanor would give her right arm for someone to look at her the way Mr. Todd looks at Lucy. Bloody hell, she'd give _both _her arms for Mr. Todd to look at _her _that way.

Eleanor only snorts indelicately. "Funny thing to say, considerin' _you're_ the one who won't go near_ 'im_."

Lucy makes a soft, disgruntled noise in the back of her throat and ventures further into the room. Trailing her fingers along the wall, she heads for the window and subsequently the trunk beneath it. Eleanor's heart begins to pound. "I've missed this room," Lucy breathes. "It was always my favorite."

When Lucy reaches the window and perches primly atop the trunk, Eleanor swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She can barely make out Lucy's words as the blood rushes in her ears. "No one made you leave it, dear."

Lucy taps her fingers against the side of the trunk and Eleanor pictures Pirelli folded up inside it, bleeding all over his hideous blue suit. "I couldn't stand to be in here anymore," Lucy protests mildly. "You know that."

Eleanor wonders if Lucy still finds it painful to be in this room, considering her reluctance to accept Sweeney Todd as the man she married. To Lucy, Benjamin is still gone. His shop is still unoccupied, his place in bed beside her is still bare. Eleanor can't help but wonder whether Lucy really sees Mr. Todd at all or if he's just a phantom on the outer edges of her memory, a living ghost of her dead husband.

Lucy stands from the trunk, turning to gaze out the window instead, but Nellie still feels her knees quivering. "I wish you would have consulted me about your plan for Benjamin, but it _is _rather ingenious." Glancing over her shoulder, Lucy beams. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. You're brilliant, Eleanor."

"I 'ave my moments," Eleanor says, frowning a little. "But why am I particularly intelligent today, dear? Enlighten me."

"He'll be shaving again, the way he used to. It's the perfect way to snap him out of this foul mood he's in. He's going to come back." Lucy smiles. "Benjamin is going to come back."

* * *

A/N - Hey there, all! Thanks so much for all your reviews, you're amazing and I love you. Haha Just to let you know, I'm going to be on vacation for about a week starting today, so I won't be able to reply to your reviews right away, but I'll still be able to check my email on my phone and feedback would make me ridiculously happy:D Anyway, shoutout to TrixieFirecracker for guessing about Turpin and Toby - she's in my head. I feel sorry for her; it's scary in there.

BIG thanks to Robynne for being so fantabulous and helpful. I don't know what I'd do without her help! ILY.

About Turpin, I chose the name Edmund for Judge Turpin's name because it's the name of the first man to play Turpin, Edmund Lyndeck. The chapter title is a line from I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. Also, some of the dialogue from this chapter was taken directly from the movie. I'm sure you all know which parts:D Oh, cookie for whoever spots the Oliver Twist reference! Did anybody happen to see the new Alice In Wonderland teaser trailer? It looks EPIC, non?

Mrs. Todd Barker - Haha, Your mom used to tell you that myth? What a weird coincidence. And thank you so much, I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much! Thanks for reviewing!

Mariana - Yes, Johanna is growing up a lot more like Nellie than Lucy, which is a bit of a blessing, really. I wanted Johanna to have more of Nellie's influence in her life in this story. I'm glad it's showing:D Thanks for the review!

Penelope - Haha, No big deal; I'm just glad you're here now! And I'm glad you're still liking the story. You don't need a bigger vocabulary to describe Lucy - I think silly fits her perfectly:d Thank you for reviewing!

Lilia-Rose - You just got back from Egypt?! I am SO ridiculously jealous of you right now. Haha That must have been incredible. I was obsessed with Egypt when I was a little girl. Thanks! I'm glad you like my version of Johanna, I'm pretty fond of her too;) Thanks for reviewing!


	8. Cracks In Our Foundation

_Proof of Heaven_

"Of all the bloody nights to repair a bloody torn skirt. As if it wasn't 'ard enough to drag this bleeder - " Nellie winces as Pirelli's heavy boots clunk loudly on the bakehouse steps. "Down the creaky stairs by your ruddy wife's bedroom!" She yanks again on Pirelli's arm and her elbow jabs Mr. Todd in the side. "Sorry, love."

He glares at her and she can't be sure if it's because of the offending elbow or the way she had scoffed at Lucy. It certainly isn't Eleanor's fault the silly nit had decided to sit up for hours to sew, while Pirelli rotted away in the trunk upstairs. She had been quite sure that the creaking interior stairs would give them away, positive that Lucy would appear, sleepy and angelic in her nightgown, golden hair falling down her back, to ask what on earth they were up to.

Only now, in the relative silence of the bakehouse, can Eleanor be sure Lucy won't disturb them. They drop Signor Pirelli's body next to the sewer grate, and Nellie winces when his head hits the stone floor with a sickening crack. She dusts off her hands as Mr. Todd lifts the grille and it scrapes against the floor as he shoves it away.

He doesn't look at her as he speaks, preferring to study the space next to her boots instead. "Once I'm through, lower him down." Without waiting for her to agree, Mr. Todd slips through the grate with a disturbing amount of agility and disappears. Eleanor hears his feet hit the concrete and peers into the darkness below. She wrinkles her nose. Even from up here, the stench is unbelievably offensive. She can only imagine how horrid it must be for Mr. Todd.

"Mr. T," she begins delicately, trying to make out his face in the inky blackness of the sewer. "Are you sure 'e'll fit? Ain't like 'e's a tiny fellow."

Just as Mr. Todd mumbles, "I'm sure," Eleanor's eyes finally adjust to the darkness and she spots him just beneath her. His head is tilted up to regard her through the opening in the floor and their eyes meet briefly. "Push him down."

Still skeptical, Nellie shrugs. "Well are you goin' to catch 'im, then? I don't much feel like cleanin' up splattered brains tonight."

Mr. Todd's answering sigh is drenched with exasperation. "Push him down."

Pirelli is a heavy bugger, but Nellie manages to drag him closer to the sewer by the wrists. "Catch, love."

Pirelli's legs slip through the floor and dangle for only a moment before Mr. Todd gets a firm grip on them. Slowly, she lowers the rest of the corpse through the opening until Mr. Todd takes Pirelli by the waist. Eleanor breathes a sigh of relief as Mr. Todd lets Pirelli's body rest on the ledge next to the sewage.

Turning to look up at her, Mr. Todd steps directly beneath the grate and holds out a hand. Heart in her mouth, Nellie stares at him. "W-what are you doin', love?"

Eyebrows raising a fraction, Mr. Todd watches her for a long moment. "Are you planning on joining me, Mrs. Lovett?"

Swallowing, hoping he doesn't see her hand tremble as she reaches out for his, Eleanor nods. His fingers close around hers and she fights to keep from shutting her eyes or gasping at how unexpectedly warm his skin is. With a gentle tug, she lands unsteadily on her feet, clutching at Mr. Todd's arm as she tries to maintain her balance.

Mr. Todd clears his throat quietly and Nellie jerks away from him, as if burned. "Well," she breathes, face hot. "Ready, Mr. T?"

Maneuvering carefully around her, mindful of accidentally brushing against her, Mr. Todd slips his hands underneath Pirelli's arms. Dragging half the body with him, he steps across the channel, eyeing her dubiously. "Take his feet."

Prepared to complain about being commanded in such a way, Eleanor sucks in a breath and nearly chokes on it. From above, the smell of the sewers had been overpowering, but in the midst of it, it's nearly suffocating. Gagging, she coughs into her palm, eyes stinging. Peering at Mr. Todd through watery eyes, she rasps, "Like sniffin' a bouquet of daisies, eh?"

Mr. Todd doesn't respond, continuing to watch her curiously, but Eleanor expects no less from him by now. Not bothering to wipe at her eyes, she bends down and grips Pirelli's ankles. With a grunt and a heave, they lift the body off the ground and begin inching along the edges of the sewer, balanced precariously.

It doesn't take long before her arms begin to ache under the weight of his frame, muscles burning and screaming to be relieved of their burden. Eleanor has done a lot of heavy lifting in her life - sacks of potatoes, packages from the market, Johanna when she was six and still wanting to be carried about - but she finds it a little too immoral to put Signor Pirelli's corpse into the same category as a sack of potatoes.

Mr. Todd doesn't seem troubled by their baggage, his brow creased in steady concentration as he adjusts the weight of Pirelli's upper body. Quite obviously, he isn't in the mood for conversation, though Nellie has to wonder if he ever is, and so they silently trudge their way through filth, slime and other unmentionables. With her hands otherwise occupied, she has no choice but to let the bottoms of her skirts scrape the grimy brick. She tries her best not to let herself dwell on what that sludge really contains.

It's morbidly amusing to think that above their heads, Lucy sleeps in blissful ignorance of the nefarious deeds her husband and landlady are committing; and in the parlor, passed out on the settee, is Toby. The poor thing had drunk himself into a stupor and Eleanor couldn't find it in her heart to toss him out onto the streets. In the morning, she'll ask him what he thinks about staying here and working for her, but right now, she tries to focus only on the task at hand.

Her corset doesn't allow proper breathing, and she draws in large gulps of air as they continue their steady pace. She still hasn't grown accustomed to the putrid smell of the sewer and she can very nearly taste the raw sewage on her tongue. It makes her want to retch but she struggles valiantly against the urge.

Trudging through the sewers with bile rising in her throat and Pirelli's boots digging into her side is not exactly how Nellie had hoped to spend her evening. The knowledge that she could be in her warm bed, unconscious to the world, or perhaps enjoying a bottle of gin in the pie shop with Mr. Todd, doesn't make the journey any easier to bear. The sewer not only smells fetid, but it's hotter than the deepest circle of hell. She can feel sweat beginning to form on her brow and beneath her corset.

Even so, despite the smell, the sweat and her heavy burden, Eleanor cannot find it within herself to truly complain. Transporting a dead body to the river isn't how she wishes to spend her time with Mr. Todd, but they're alone together. Lucy isn't here to steal away his attention. She isn't chiding Mr. Todd for carrying his razor everywhere or looking at Eleanor as if it's her fault he does so to begin with. Time alone with Mr. Todd is precious, and Nellie will take all she can get.

Grumbling to herself when the heel of Pirelli's boot jabs her side for what seems like the hundredth time, Eleanor huffs her irritation and says, "Y'know, Mr. T, I always believed you'd come back but I never quite expected to be doin' anythin' like _this_ when you did."

Brow still furrowed, Mr. Todd glances up at her and even in the darkness of the sewer, his eyes glitter. She's never seen this expression on him, at least not directed at her. He isn't frowning or glowering, he doesn't even look annoyed. His eyes are totally devoid of the sorrow she is so used to seeing in them. He looks like a gentler version of himself. For just a moment, Eleanor stops breathing. As she balances on the edge of crumbling brick, just inches above the feculent matter flowing out to the Thames, Nellie is lost in the fathomless depths of Mr. Todd's gaze. So when something furry brushes against her ankle, she shrieks.

She manages to step on the bloody thing's tail by accident and its accompanying screech startles her into losing her grip on Pirelli. His legs crash into the sewage below, splattering goo all over her skirts. In the middle of gasping indignantly, Nellie looks up just in time to see Mr. Todd stagger forward with a grunt, struggling to keep the rest of Pirelli from tumbling into the sewage without her help.

"Bloody 'ell," she hisses, glaring after the rat. It scurries away from her with another little screech, not seeming to care in the least about her sodden skirts or that half a corpse is submerged in sewer water. Eleanor composes herself with a deep breath, wiping a droplet of some mysterious filth from her forehead. She braces a hand against the wall to steady herself for a moment but instantly draws it away again, wrinkling her nose at the dampness clinging to her palm. She wipes it on her skirts and glances sourly at her partner in crime. "Soon as we toss this one, I'm goin' to find that li'tle bleeder and feed 'im to one of Mrs. Mooney's cats."

Saying nothing, Mr. Todd merely scowls at her, panting as he tightens his hold on Pirelli's midsection. Inexplicably, Nellie can think of nothing but the way his eyes had looked only moments ago - soft and unguarded. It's a far cry from the glare he's giving her now, though he certainly seems more at ease. As if more comfortable with an emotion like an annoyance. As if feeling anything resembling camaraderie with someone other than his darling wife fills him with despair.

"Oh come on now, Mr. T," she says teasingly, forcing a smile. "No need to look so cross, love. Ain't like the blighter felt it."

She feels something like pride well in her chest when the corner of Mr. Todd's mouth twitches, his irritation momentarily forgotten. His eyes, she notices, are glittering again. Biting her lip to hide a lovesick grin, she moves to pick up Pirelli's legs, only to grimace when she realizes his pant legs are now saturated in sewage. Eleanor utters a cry of disgust and lifts his legs with a grunt of effort.

"Come on then," she sighs. "The sooner we toss this bloke to the fishies, the sooner I can go to bed."

They continue on their way and Nellie's corset is strangling her. She can't seem to catch her breath and every step is a chore. Her back is pushed to the point of breaking. Everything in her is screaming for relief - just a small break. However, she grits her teeth and pushes on. She has already slowed them down once with the bloody rat and she refuses to do so again. Nellie forces herself to concentrate only on keeping a firm hold on Pirelli, rather than the little voice inside shrieking to rest.

It only works for a few minutes and just when she is about to break down, to beg Mr. Todd to stop just for a moment, he halts unexpectedly, head cocked to one side, listening intently. Panting heavily, Nellie stares, swallowing as his calculating gaze meets her own. "What is it, Mr. T?"

He inclines his head further ahead of them. "We're getting close."

Wrenching her gaze away from him, Nellie closes her eyes and listens. Sure enough, the sound of rushing water meets her ears and she grins to herself. Almost there. The sound of the Thames has never been so melodious to her before and she struggles not to sprint the rest of the way. The rushing water continues to grow louder in volume until the roar of the river drowns out their echoing footsteps, the screeching of the rats, even the wild beating of her own heart.

They're blessedly close to open air. She can tell by the faint breeze as they come closer to the edge of the drain. The warm, stifling wind rustles Eleanor's filth-spattered skirts. The air is beginning to smell a little cleaner - if smog and the putrid stench of sweat and rotting fish can truly be called clean. Nevertheless, Eleanor breathes it in greedily, glancing at Mr. Todd as they come to the edge of the drain.

A rusted, brittle grille is the only thing between them and the river. Mr. Todd stares through it at the water, his eyes blank. Shifting her grip on Pirelli, struggling to catch her breath, she asks, "Shall we?"

Swallowing, Mr. Todd nods once, jaw set.

They carefully drop the body to the ground and turn to look at the grille. It doesn't take much effort to move it just enough to slip Pirelli's body underneath. Her arms are throbbing, verging on utterly useless, but Nellie manages to gather enough of her strength to help Mr. Todd slide Pirelli through the opening and into the river.

Nellie slips her fingers through the grille, curling her fingers around it as they watch the body begin to sink. Bubbles rise to the surface, and for one brief instant before he disappears completely, Eleanor sees Pirelli's face in the murky water. Pale, open-mouthed and bloodied, he doesn't look at all like the little boy he used to be, and she takes comfort in that as he sinks into the dark depths of the Thames.

Puffing a curl from her face and very aware of the sweat and grime clinging to her skin, Eleanor glances anxiously at Mr. Todd. Face flushes from the exertion, he is already looking at her, a strange glint of admiration shining in his dark eyes. He looks almost ethereal in the darkness, so painfully beautiful that Eleanor crosses her sore arms over her chest to keep herself from reaching out to touch him.

She glances away, determining that she has humiliated herself enough for one night. And then she notices. Mr. Todd's hands are clenched into tights fists at his sides, his back is ramrod straight. Almost as if he is restraining himself as well. Eleanor stifles an undignified snort, knowing he adores his wife. Lucy Barker - gentle, soft, beautiful. Eleanor is hardly any of those things. But then why...

Confused, she slides her eyes back up to Mr. Todd's and finds him staring intently at her. Wide-eyed and lips parted, he tilts his head slightly, looking for all the world as though he has just realized something terribly important. As though he doesn't want to so much as blink for fear he'll forget what it is. Unnerved in a way only Benjamin's lilting grin had ever been able to make her, Nellie feels her knees begin to tremble.

Helplessly weak and hating herself for it, she clears her throat and asks shakily, "Gin?"

Mr. Todd blinks, glancing away. "Fine."

Cold without the heat of his gaze on her, Eleanor slowly feels her senses return to her and she silently scolds herself for acting like such a foolish twit. As if Mr. Todd would ever spare a glance at her. He'd probably been remembering something about his wife - some charming thing she used to do so long ago, before his very presence made her skittish. Even so, as they begin making their way back to the bakehouse without Pirelli's corpse between them, Nellie doesn't mind the long walk so much.

--

Every mansion on the quaint little lane in Kensington has settled down for the night - its masters and mistresses have doused their lamps, pulled the blankets up to their chins and settled into gentle dreams. However, the people who make their meals, polish their silver and scrub their chamber pots are just beginning to enjoy themselves.

"If it isn't true, may God strike me dead!" Harry declares, holding up his glass of gin, totally ignorant of the alcohol sloshing down the sides and onto his shirt sleeve.

Johanna giggles at the Foster's cook, glancing down at her own drink. During the day, the house is almost entirely silent and it had nearly driven her mad. But now, in the Servants Hall with the other members of the Foster's staff, she feels more at home than she has all day.

"Forgive me, Harry," she says, stifling another fit of laughter. "But I don't believe that Mr. Foster would really ask for opium in his morning tea."

Flora rolls her eyes, swiping her white cap off her head and tossing it aside. "Ignore him, he always gets like this when he's drunk."

"When_ isn't _he drunk?" Ruth scoffs, and Flora snorts in response.

Harry frowns at them but the effect is lost somewhat when his unfocused gaze lands on the wall behind them rather than at the women themselves. "You wound me, ladies," he says, bringing a hand to his heart. Forgetting he holds his drink in that hand, Harry spills gin down the front of his shirt, sending the girls into gales of laughter.

Red-faced, Harry grumbles to himself and proceeds to pout at his hand of cards. A roar of disbelief, followed by an unrefined snort directs Johanna's attention away from the table, and she watches as George, the Foster's driver, regales a circle of kitchen helpers, the gardener, the footman and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bedwin, with tales of his latest afternoon adventure - driving Mrs. Foster and her elderly grandmother to look at tapestries.

Weathered cap fisted in one hand, sitting in the light of the fire, George gestures animatedly with his hands, nearly smacking the footman in the ear. "The old bitty actually asked me to lay down my coat so she wouldn't have to step in the mud!" George sounds incredulous, paying no mind to the wounded look the footman is giving him while he rubs at his ear. "Mrs. Foster - the saint - suggested she walk around the puddle instead!"

The atmosphere in the Servants Hall is buoyant and light-hearted compared to the way the house is run during the day and Johanna feels sufficiently less home-sick surrounded by noise and laughter. It feels almost as if Auntie Nell's rambunctious spirit is in the room with her, even if she can't truly be with Johanna.

Spreading her handful of cards out on the battered wooden table, Johanna fixes them all with a triumphant grin. "Well, I hope you've all brought your coin purses."

"That's the third time tonight," Clarence groans, tossing his cards onto the table. "This lass must have been raised by thieves and crooks! I give up."

Johanna swipes up the coins he tosses onto the table with a sigh of delight, silently thanking late nights at the pie shop for teaching her something useful. Auntie Nell will certainly get a kick out Johanna swindling money from the Foster's butler.

"...that slimy bugger Turpin had the nerve to tell me that I didn't drive him here quickly enough! As if he's ever had to navigate these bloody streets - "

Eyes widening, Johanna whirls around in her seat to look at George. "You know Edmund Turpin? Who is he?"

"Judge." George eyes her beadily. "Why d'you ask?"

Johanna shrugs innocently. "I was only wondering."

Unconvinced, George squints at her from across the room. "Don't go getting yourself mixed up with the likes of him, poppet. Even Mr. Foster only tolerates him because he needs to, being a lawyer and all."

Johanna frowns thoughtfully, slipping all her coins into her apron pocket except for one. She fiddles idly with it. "Yes, he seemed rather - "

"Nasally?" Harry offers with a drunken smile.

"No," Johanna shakes her head, smiling wryly. "Well, yes but no."

"You mean, he seemed like an arse," Ivy puts in helpfully.

Flora laughs, running slender fingers through white-blonde hair. "Or a right proper git."

"An immoral bugger," Ruth offers with a grin.

"Yes to all of the above," Johanna laughs, relieved that she doesn't have to explain herself. She tosses her coin at Clarence's scandalized expression and he catches it deftly, pocketing it. "He kept staring at me today, as if he knew me somehow. It was rather unsettling."

Ruth snorts. "Having that blighter stare at you all afternoon is enough to unsettle anyone, dear. It's a disturbing habit of his, staring."

"Drooling, more like," Ivy blanches, wrinkling her nose. "Don't worry, Johanna. Just stay away from him and he'll leave you alone."

"Sometimes," Clarence says, pursing his lips. "Other times he pursues young women to the point of madness. Why, I still remember that poor young woman he set his sights on fifteen years ago - "

"Clarence," Flora chucks her cards at him with a reproving look. "Don't frighten the poor girl. She'll be fine - we're here, after all. What could possibly happen with us around?"

Clarence shrugs, eyeing Johanna. "Just be careful, miss."

--

"Have you heard anything from her? Surely she sent a note!"

Eleanor sighs heavily, chin in palm. "This is only 'er second day there, love. I don't think she's 'ad time to write me a bloody letter."

If someone had told her several weeks ago, when the sailor showed up at her door, that he would be here in her kitchen, pestering her, she would have been able to stop Johanna from inviting him to dinner. No matter how badly her floors needed scrubbing. Sitting across from her at the table, looking forlorn and lovesick all at once, Anthony stares into his untouched tumbler of gin while Nellie pours herself another glass.

"I don't understand why I couldn't just visit her for a moment and make sure everything is alright," Anthony complains, looking at her beseechingly. "What if I - "

"No."

"But Mrs. Lovett - "

"Love, I've already told you. Those sorts of families don't like their servants 'avin' family and fiancés 'angin' about like that. Don't make a nuisance of yourself - you'll only get Johanna in trouble."

"Yes, I know, but - "

"Bloomin' 'ell, Anthony," Nellie sighs loudly. "You're takin' all the fun out of companionable drinkin'!"

Abashed, Anthony glances away, cheeks red. "Sorry, ma'am. I'm just concerned for Johanna."

She's not about to tell the boy about her own fears or the fact that she had lain awake last night, staring at the ceiling, worrying if Johanna was homesick, or having trouble sleeping, if she was hungry or cold, if she'd packed enough stockings. It will hardly help Anthony, and it certainly won't make her feel any better to voice her concerns aloud.

"Johanna can take care of 'erself," she says instead. "Thought you'd know that by now."

"Of course I do," Anthony says defensively, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm just concerned for her. We don't know anything about this family."

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Eleanor stands, abandoning her drink to take up her rolling pin. Dinner is in an hour and it only makes sense to take out her frustration on something useful. "_You_ may not, but I do." She tilts her head to the side, eyeing the dough and rattling off Foster family facts. "Mr. Foster is a lawyer an' 'is wife was born with a ruddy silver spoon in 'er mouth. Just moved 'ere from Shropshire."

"That's all very well, Mrs. Lovett," Anthony says, watching her with a frown. "But that doesn't tell us anything about their _character_. That's the most important thing, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," she sighs, whacking a lump of dough violently. "Johanna 'as always been a good judge of character. If she's willin' to work for 'em, then you can bet they're not 'orrible tyrants what make 'er sleep on the floor."

Anthony is still frowning, but he mutters, "Yes, I suppose so."

"I imagine you can see for yourself on Sunday." Eleanor pauses in rolling the dough to huff a red curl away from her eyes. "You can even interrogate 'er if you please. Ask 'er if they've been feedin' 'er and whether they tuck 'er in at night."

"You mock me," Anthony says with a pout. "And yet I know you must be worried too. Don't try to deny it."

Eleanor huffs, smacking her rolling pin against the counter. "Of course I'm bloody worried! You think I 'aven't been wonderin' if they're treatin' 'er right, if she's eatin', if the other servants are 'orrible to 'er?" She sighs tiredly, leaning against the counter. "I don't need you comin' round 'ere and remindin' me _why _I need to be worried."

Blushing, Anthony lowers his eyes to the table. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lovett. I didn't realize I was distressing you. I won't mention it again."

Nodding satisfactorily, Eleanor turns back to her dough. "You 'aven't seen the boy, 'ave you? I sent 'im out for more flour 'alf an hour ago!"

Anthony shakes his head, rising from his chair to stand with her at the counter. "Would you like me to help you? Or I can go look for him, if - " He stops suddenly, brow furrowing. "Mrs. Lovett, did you say Sunday? It's only Friday! Johanna won't be coming home until _Sunday_? Is that the only day she has off? That's preposterous - "

Nellie brandishes her rolling pin threateningly, eyebrows raised. "Love, either stop complain' or get out of my kitchen."

Anthony winces, scratching the back of his head. "Sorry. I forgot."

If she stays in the kitchen with Anthony, Nellie is sure he'll forget again and she will be forced to either toss him from her kitchen or use violence to keep him quiet. Neither option is particularly appealing, so she slaps the rolling pin into his hand and sighs. "Just roll this dough out for me, would you, lad?"

As if eager to be forgiven, Anthony nods. "Of course, Mrs. Lovett."

"Good." She winks. "And if you pop a few pies into the oven for me too, I just might let you stay for dinner."

Grinning, Anthony brushes sandy-hued locks from his eyes. "I'd be delighted, ma'am."

She strolls through the pie shop, dusting flour from her hands, sure she should feel remorse for making Anthony do more of her work but unable to summon up the willingness to do so. It's only fair, really, if he's going to continue lurking about, that silly lovelorn look on his face. Besides, it will make Johanna happy if Nellie would refrain from abusing the poor lad. The only way she can possibly manage that is to keep him busy.

On a whim, Nellie climbs the interior stairs to the upper apartment. Lucy isn't due home from the dress shop for another few minutes and Nellie hasn't seen Mr. Todd since they finished their gin and retired to their beds early this morning. She refuses think about how pathetic she is - that she can't seem to go a whole day without looking at him, without saying something to him, whether he's listening to her or not.

Sweeping into the upstairs parlor without bothering to knock, Eleanor finds Mr. Todd standing rigidly at the window, staring out at the butcher shop across the street. "Y'know," she sighs, making her way to his side, smirking when he turns to look at her, startled. "At first, I thought it might be nice to 'ave someone to miss Johanna with. But that boy far surpasses me in obsession." Mr. Todd stares at her blankly and she shakes her head. " 'ad to come up here just to get away from the lad."

"Anthony," he says, and she isn't sure if he's asking or merely saying his name with disdain. His curled lip says the latter, but she nods anyway.

"I love that li'tle imp of a girl more than anythin', but if I 'ad to listen to one more word about 'er, I was going to 'it Anthony over the head with my bloody rollin' pin."

"Don't," Sweeney mutters darkly. "I have no wish to venture into the sewers again, Mrs. Lovett."

Bewildered, Eleanor can only gape at him for several long moments. Mr. Todd doesn't even glance at her, continuing his scrutiny of the butcher shop but his mouth twitches just slightly, giving him away. He's teasing. Mr. Todd is _teasing _her. Torn between giggling hysterically and gawking at him in shock, she settles for a breathless grin and murmurs, "Why Mr. T. You been workin' on your sense of humor, 'aven't you, love?"

His eyes sliding briefly in her direction is the only answer she receives and Nellie leans against the window frame, pretending to gaze out at the city and surreptitiously studying Mr. Todd instead. She finds the view inside the apartment vastly more captivating than anything beyond the windowpane. Mr. Todd is too intent on staring outside - probably waiting for Lucy to come sauntering down the lane - to notice her scrutiny and Eleanor basks in the freedom of being able to look at him with the knowledge that he isn't attending to her.

She traces the now familiar features with her eyes - the firmly set mouth with thin lips, strong jaw, cheekbones carved from ivory, the straight nose and pained eyes. Nellie lets her gaze fall on his hair last, a wild mane of black and silver. As untamable as the man himself. She finds herself wondering how it would feel beneath her fingertips, imagines coiling a strand of black around her finger. Would it be soft to the touch, or as brittle as Sweeney Todd?

As if acting of its own volition, her trembling hand reaches out between them. Slowly, she touches the tips of her fingers to a dark lock of hair resting against his cheek. It's soft - almost like down feathers. Somehow, she had known it would be. She fights the urge to slide her hand back and bury it in the hair at the back of his neck, to lean close and discover if it smells as wonderful as it feels.

Mr. Todd doesn't leap away like a startled animal, the way she expects him to. He turns to look at her, eyes wide and bewildered, but he doesn't pull away. Everything in her is screaming to retract her hand before he loses his patience, before he steps away from her in disgust. Instead, with a pounding heart and shaking hand, Eleanor brushes the strand from his face, letting her knuckles lightly dust his cheek.

The touch sends heat flooding through her body and she only barely manages to contain a gasp. Mouth dry, she pulls her hand back, clutching it to her chest as if wounded. Still, Mr. Todd doesn't move. He only watches her with a curious expression on his face - as though he can't understand why he had let her do such a thing.

The moment is too much and Eleanor feels as though she might burst if she doesn't tear her gaze away from him. Whirling away abruptly, breathless, she curls her fingers tightly around the window ledge. After a tense moment of silence, she spots a blonde in a pink gown making her way down the street and whispers hoarsely, "Your wife is 'ere."

Mr. Todd sounds just as rattled when he replies, "Of course."

--

Guilt is a many faceted thing.

It can make a man drop to his knees and confess. It can cause a man to harden his heart until not even the warmest of affections can break through the walls that barricade his emotions. Guilt can be so powerful that sometimes, a man needn't be responsible for anything morally reprehensible at all to feel its wrath.

Not so, in Sweeney Todd's case. He has every reason to suffer under the weight of this affliction. He isn't a stranger to guilt. He has vague recollections of his cousin falling from a tree in his backyard and breaking his arm. Benjamin had been just a child, but he'd felt guilty that it hadn't been him instead. He has fuzzy memories of being a young boy, away from home the day his childhood friend, a beloved dog, died. He'd felt as though he should have been there, to be with his companion as he left the world and he'd carried the guilt for a long time. While he views most of his time with Lucy through half-remembered glimpses and hazy memories, he distinctly remembers feeling the weight of his guilt every time he had a small spat with his wife. He might have even felt a shadow of it as he slit Pirelli's throat and watched him gasp his last breath.

But never, not once in his whole existence has Sweeney ever felt guilt of this magnitude. It weighs him down, a heavy pressure everywhere at once. It reminds him of being in the ocean, when the waves pulled him under. The water all around, coming at him from all sides - pounding the air from his lungs, stinging his eyes, filling his ears until all he could think of is breaking the surface and gasping for breath.

Lucy sits across from him in Mrs. Lovett's small parlor, focusing all of her attention on her embroidery - some sort of tea cloth she has been working on for weeks. She had returned from work half an hour ago and Sweeney had immediately fled their upstairs quarters to meet her in the pie shop - anything to tear himself away from Mrs. Lovett and his own foolishness. Lucy is wholly oblivious to his inner turmoil and for that, Sweeney is grateful. What would she think of him, if she knew?

He had killed Pirelli, but he knows Lucy would forgive him for that if she knew his reasons. If she knew Pirelli would have exposed him - sent him far away from her and Johanna. No, murder is the lesser of Sweeney's sins. It hasn't gone beyond his notice that he has grown close to Mrs. Lovett over the course of his return and at first, it had seemed logical. Mrs. Lovett was willing to talk to him when Johanna had still been afraid to approach him, when Lucy realized he still carried the burden of the years. Mrs. Lovett has given him his razors, shown him pictures of Johanna, and shared her gin.

It had only seemed natural that he gravitate toward her. He hadn't forgotten the friendship he shared with Mrs. Lovett all those years ago. Then, he had sought her company frequently - all too happy to chat with her for hours. Slowly, that has begun to change, morphing their friendship into something entirely unrecognizable.

When he had first returned home, he had barely given Mrs. Lovett more than a glance. Now, he finds that he can't seem to stop looking. He has grown quite used to seeing a glimpse of her red hair out of the corner of his eye - so accustomed to it than he feels almost hollow without scarlet curls somewhere nearby. She seems to have no problem raising her voice to be heard and Sweeney finds he prefers her laughter, her dry tone and her chatter, to the sound of Lucy's silence.

Mrs. Lovett's companionship is ceasing to be a comfort and becoming more of a craving. Though Lucy does not approve of the gin they share, he feels that such a betrayal is nothing compared to what else has transpired. Lingering looks that he cannot explain - that frighten him and leave him breathless all at once. On their clandestine journey to the Thames last night, he remembers feeling quite capable of losing himself in Mrs. Lovett's openly honest gaze and if she hadn't turned away when she had...He doesn't want to think about what he might have done.

And then, she had touched him. Upstairs, in the space he shares with his beloved wife, Mrs. Lovett had brushed the hair from his eyes, touched her knuckles lightly against the skin of his cheek. He had fought a shudder at even that slight touch; he had bristled against the fire in his veins. He'd wanted to move closer, to feel soft skin against his own once more.

In both instances, it had been all he could do to restrain himself. That scares him more than anything.

Mrs. Lovett had touched him so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She had reached for him seemingly without hesitation, whereas Lucy's touch is so unfamiliar to him now. She has avoided touching him since his return, when his kiss had left her bleeding. It had been a moment of thoughtlessness he is still paying for and he can't help but wonder how different things might be if he had been able to control himself.

White-knuckled, his hands clutching the arms of his chair in an iron-grip, Sweeney lifts his eyes to Lucy. His beloved. She still hasn't looked up from her embroidery, the brightest eyes he has ever seen focused so entirely on her task. She glows in the dim light, angelic and otherworldly in her innocence. He doesn't deserve her love and he wonders briefly if he still has it. He knows that if Johanna or even Mrs. Lovett had been sitting where he is now, Lucy would have looked up from her work, if only for a moment. She is pointedly avoiding his gaze and it's agonizing to realize.

He misses her.

He misses her gentle laugh, the brush of her yellow hair against his cheek. He wants her to look at him, to truly look. Not the timid glances she gives him now. The way she used to look at him so long ago - as though nothing else in the world could possibly be more important than what she found in his eyes. Sweeney has never felt so far away from his wife; not even in Botany Bay, halfway around the world.

Sweeney turns his gaze from Lucy to the fire crackling in the hearth. Perhaps that is why he has felt the need to be near Mrs. Lovett recently. Lucy only speaks to him if she must or if he has spoken to her first. Mrs. Lovett has been only too willing to share her stories and her store of alcohol.

Slowly, he begins to loosen his grip on the arms of his chair, flexing his fingers. He has been seeking comfort from Mrs. Lovett - the sort of comfort he should be receiving from his wife, but it must stop now. Seeking out Mrs. Lovett's company in the old days had been acceptable, but things are different now and the baker's constant presence is creating a rift between Sweeney and his wife. His actions can only be described as unforgivable.

He doesn't know Lucy anymore, couldn't even begin to understand how to approach her now. Sweeney is quite sure that if he were to sit on the settee next to Lucy at this very moment, if he were to rest his arm around her delicate shoulders and press his lips to her temple, she would jump away like a startled bird.

It never used to be so difficult. Showing affection for his darling Lucy used to be as simple as breathing. Lucy would always lean into him, giggle breathlessly and murmur in his ear. She is still the quiet, chaste creature she used to be. Only _he _has changed - he is the reason she no longer responds so ardently. And so it falls to Sweeney to capture his wife's attention. He just isn't quite sure how to do so. He only knows that he must stay away from their landlady and her gin. Both are far too distracting.

Shifting uncomfortably, Sweeney licks his lips. "Shop opens tomorrow," he ventures.

Without looking up, Lucy responds, "Yes, Eleanor mentioned it yesterday. Are you ready?"

He nods, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Yes."

"Good," Lucy murmurs.

She says no more on the matter and they lapse once more into silence. Watching the careful movements of Lucy's fingers with the needle, Sweeney suddenly remembers deep, wide brown eyes and the lightest brush of knuckles against his skin. He frowns. He had only wanted to feel close to another human being in that moment...what had been Mrs. Lovett's reason?

"Hello?"

Sweeney's head snaps up at the familiar voice, as sweet as her mother's but infinitely louder at the moment.

"I'm home! Who missed me the most?"

From the kitchen, Sweeney hears Anthony's sharp gasp, the clatter of Mrs. Lovett's mixing bowl as it hits the floor and her squeal of delight. "You wicked lit'le thing! What are you doin' 'ere? They tire of your mouth already?"

Smiling in a patient, motherly way, Lucy puts aside her embroidery work and rises, smoothing her skirts. She moves with the same grace and fluidity that Sweeney has always admired, almost as if she were a swan gliding across a lake. Crossing the parlor to the doorway, she glances back at him hesitantly and Sweeney takes it as his invitation.

Johanna stands in the middle of the pie shop with Anthony at her side, listening with an indulgent smile as he talks rapidly. "Did they give you a proper room? How often are you able to rest? Are they decent people? What about the servants? Are they - "

"Anthony," Mrs. Lovett snaps over the sound of Johanna's giggles. "Hush up, love or I'll send you to the bakehouse."

Sweeney steels himself against the sound of Mrs. Lovett's voice, refusing to let it have any effect on him. Her presence and her friendship is no longer the comfort it once was - not when he can't look at her without feeling her skin against his cheek. Averting his eyes, he swallows, mouth dry.

Looking abashed, Anthony promptly closes his mouth and settles for gazing at Johanna in a way that reminds Sweeney eerily of the way Benjamin used to stare at Lucy when they were courting. He tries not to glare and is only mildly successful.

Wiping her hands on her skirts, Mrs. Lovett nearly skips to Johanna's side, pulling the girl away from Anthony and into her arms. Quite without his consent, Sweeney finds his eyes drawn to fiery red hair and he fiercely wrenches his gaze away, jaw tight.

"You ruddy lit'le sneak! I thought you were only 'ome on Sundays!" Squeezing Johanna so hard the girl emits a squeak of protest, Mrs. Lovett steps back, cupping Johanna's face in her gloved hands. "Not that I ain't 'appy to see you - "

"Oh, well of course," Johanna rolls her eyes, smiling affectionately. "Mr. and Mrs. Foster retire to their country house on the weekends and told me this morning that they won't be needing me until they return. So from Friday to Sunday evenings, I'm all yours."

Mrs. Lovett glances over her shoulder and says wryly, "Does that answer any questions about their character, Anthony?"

Anthony tries to frown but fails miserably through his grin. "It's certainly very charitable."

Still standing in the doorway with Sweeney, Lucy clears her throat softly and everyone turns to look. "Johanna, dearest, come here for a moment and then you can continue with your celebrating."

Johanna smiles uncertainly. "Hello, Mother."

"Hello, my darling. I've missed you." Reaching out a hand when Johanna is close enough, Lucy cups their daughter's cheek, brushing away a spot of flour Mrs. Lovett's hand had left there. Then, she draws her into an uncertain embrace. Johanna hesitantly wraps her arms around her, her posture stiff. "You look well."

"Thank you," Johanna pulls away, ducking her head.

Lucy fiddles nervously with her sleeve. "Would you like me to help you unpack?"

Johanna shakes her head, gesturing to the small carpet bag in the doorway. "There's no need, I didn't bring much." Turning from her mother, Johanna beams at Sweeney, stepping close to wrap her arms around him. "Father, it's so good to see you."

Sweeney closes his arms tentatively around his daughter, still not quite used to having such genuine and unguarded affection directed at him. With Johanna folded securely in his embrace, her head fitting snugly beneath his chin, he lets out a little sigh and feels the waters of guilt and the regret recede with it.

"Mrs. Lovett, ma'am?"

Johanna pulls away at the small voice and whirls to face the doorway. Mrs. Lovett smiles and beckons Toby closer. "There you are! I was beginnin' to think you'd fallen into a 'ole somewhere!"

Toby blushes, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Sorry, ma'am."

She waves him away, taking the bag of flour from him when he reaches her. "Don't be silly, love. Just glad I won't 'ave to go pokin' around in 'oles, lookin' for you." Laying a hand on his shoulder, she turns to Johanna. "This is Toby, love. 'E's goin' to be 'elpin' around the shop."

Openly staring at the scruffy young boy, Johanna laughs. "What's this? I've been replaced already?"

Ruffling Toby's hair, Mrs. Lovett shrugs. "What can I say, love? I've never been able to resist a sweet face."

"What manners, Auntie Nell!" Johanna chides, reaching out a hand and shaking Toby's. "I'm Johanna."

"Oh, 'e knows all about you, love," Mrs. Lovett smirks. "I told 'im 'ow my last 'elper up and abandoned me."

Ignoring her, Johanna smiles widely at Toby and says, "I hope you're prepared to work with the likes of this one. She can be quite demanding. And grouchy, when we're out of gin."

"That's not true either," Mrs. Lovett sniffs. "We're never out of gin."

Johanna rolls her eyes and looks at Sweeney, grinning. She looks so much like the Lucy he remembers - carefree, childlike, merry - that he wants to pull her close and shield her from the cruel world lest it break that vibrant spirit so alive in her now. It has taken time, but Sweeney has learned that Johanna doesn't need to be shielded, nor does she want to be. Lucy has tried and failed - the reason Johanna's smiles are so guarded around her mother and why she isn't embraced so freely. Sweeney wants his daughter to always look at him with shining eyes, to always be so ready to throw her arms around his neck.

"Now, stop your dawdlin' and come 'elp me with dinner."

Johanna mock salutes.

--

Dinner has become quite the affair. For too long, it was only Lucy, Johanna and herself at the dinner table night after night. Not that Eleanor didn't love Johanna, and even Lucy, in her own way, but it had always felt as if something was missing. Now, with Mr. Todd, Anthony and Toby gathered around as well, it almost feels as though they've become a right proper family. It reminds Eleanor of meals she used to take with her family - all of her brothers fighting for the last scrap of food, talking over each other and laughing. Although present meals aren't nearly as boisterous, it's a nice change to have a full table nonetheless.

As usual, Johanna and Anthony dominate the table conversation and Nellie spends her time listening to them and studying everyone else. Toby has all of his attention focused on his plate of food, devouring it with an eagerness that nearly melts her heart. The lad looks half-starved.

Surprisingly attentive, Lucy brings her glass to her lips, watching Johanna gesture animatedly. She even smiles once, the closest to genuine happiness that Eleanor has seen on her face for quite some time. Mr. Todd's eyes are on his plate but Nellie can tell he is listening. He has been studiously avoiding her gaze since what happened upstairs. She winces at her plate, a hot blush coloring her cheeks as she remembers how he'd turned away so abruptly and fled the upstairs apartment when Lucy returned from work. The poor man - Eleanor had probably scared him to death, touching him so reverently and gaping like that.

As if she had any right to be so close to him or look at him with such longing.

"The other maids are quite charming; I've only been there for two days and yet I feel like I'm among sisters when we're together. You'd love them Auntie Nell."

"What about the housekeeper?" Anthony asks. "Mrs. Bedwin, was it?"

Johanna shrugs, spearing a carrot with her fork. "I haven't gotten to know Mrs. Bedwin as well as the others; she tends to keep to herself. She seems nice enough, though."

"I'd keep an eye on that one, love," Nellie says, snapping to attention. "Those 'ousekeepers are a bossy lot - think they run the whole bleedin' 'ousehold."

"That's not always true," Johanna points out, chewing thoughtfully. "Clarence is the head butler and Mr. Foster's favorite, but he's lovely. Not at all egotistical."

Eleanor nods approvingly. "Well, what about this Mr. Foster, then? What's the bugger like?"

"Not at all what I expected," Johanna admits. "Hardly a black-hearted tyrant. He seems like a very sensible man; very amusing, actually. Both he _and _his wife come from very wealthy families but they don't seem to act like it. Just this morning, I overheard them teasing each other over a game of chess like competitive children. I'm not sure what to make of them."

Anthony laughs, picking up his drink. "Sometimes wealth is just that. It doesn't always change a person into an unfeeling beast."

"Exactly," Johanna points so wildly with her fork that Anthony flinches. "Harry says - "

"Which one is Harry again?" Anthony asks, frowning.

"The drunk one," Toby offers, glancing up from his plate with a full mouth.

"Ah."

Johanna rolls her eyes at the interruption. "Harry says that sometimes, when Mr. Foster can't sleep, he'll come downstairs and play a hand at cards with them! It was the most preposterous thing, and yet I don't have much difficulty believing it. Mr. Foster is an odd sort of man..."

"Should you really be living with a man so lacking in propriety?" Lucy asks, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

Eleanor suppresses an exasperated sigh and lets her chin rest in her hand. It had been _such _a lovely dinner so far...

Johanna laughs softly. "He's not a caveman, Mother. Mr. Foster is just more friendly with his staff than most - he respects them. That's not such a terrible thing in an employer, is it?"

"No, I suppose not." Lucy sighs quietly, regarding Johanna with the same look of nostalgia one might use when recalling a fond memory. "I only mean...Darling, are you quite sure you wouldn't like to return home? Your father is going to begin barbering again; we won't need your - "

"I'm sure," Johanna says, her voice steely with resolve. She straightens in her chair, as if preparing herself for a battle. "We need all the income we can get."

"Johanna, there's no need to be stubborn," Lucy pushes her nearly full plate away, smoothing her napkin on her lap. "You're far too young to take on such a responsibility. I miss you, darling. Stop all this silliness and come home."

Gazing at her mother through bewildered eyes, Johanna shakes her head. "Why can't you just believe in me? The way Auntie Nell does? The way father does?" She leans back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. "I _am _ready for this - even if you may not see it."

For a moment, tense silence reigns as Lucy and Johanna stare at one another. No one dares to move or even breathe. Anthony's chair creaks as he shifts uncomfortably, clearly unused to such conflict. Even Toby has stopped eating, watching the scene with wide eyes, his fork halfway to his mouth. Mr. Todd is watching them all with such detached interest that Nellie wonders if he even hears them at all. Perhaps he's far away, in some other time, lost in a memory. She only wishes she could be there as well.

Finally, Lucy nods, swallowing. "Alright. If you're sure."

Johanna nods once, mouth set firmly.

Smiling sadly, Lucy stares at the tabletop. "Very well, then."

--

With a lump in his throat, Sweeney watches his wife retreat back into herself. Lucy has never been one for conflict, shying away from it whenever she can. He can only imagine her shame at having a disagreement at the dinner table. She clears her throat and fiddles with her glass, her cheeks pink.

After a brief silence, where only the rattle of cutlery and the clinking of ice in glasses is heard, the conversation slowly begins to pick up again. Mrs. Lovett stops biting her lip and begins talking again, making a wild gesture that Sweeney follows with his eyes before he remembers he shouldn't be looking. He focuses on his plate again.

The rest of the meal passes quickly and after dessert has been served, Lucy stands, slipping away upstairs. She no doubt disapproves of the bottle of gin Mrs. Lovett has just pulled out and wants nothing to do with it. Hoping to have an actual conversation with his wife, Sweeney might have joined her, if the promise of alcohol and more time with his daughter hadn't been so tantalizing.

"I'll pour the drinks," Johanna volunteers, her cheeks flushed in her merriment as she reaches for the bottle. "Who wants one? Father, are you joining us?"

Sweeney nods and Johanna hands him a glass.

"Toby, love, you should be 'eadin' off to bed," Mrs. Lovett warns as the boy eyes the bottle. He looks very much like a starved dog staring at a slab of meat. Evidently, Mrs. Lovett notices too because she sighs and puts a hand on her hip. "Alright, one glass and then it's off to bed."

Unable to keep himself from staring this time, Sweeney turns his eyes on Mrs. Lovett and finds Johanna and Anthony gaping at her as well. Smiling, Johanna asks, "Starting this one on the drink a little early, don't you think?"

Mrs. Lovett wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. Reaching for the bottle, she pours a small glass and hands it to Toby. "There you are, love. Now hop off to bed before I get out my rollin' pin, eh?"

Toby grins at her and scampers off, heading for the parlor. Staring after him, Johanna says, "Gin? Honestly, Auntie Nell. He's only a child."

Face suddenly serious, Mrs. Lovett settles into the chair across from Sweeney and he pretends to study his drink. "They gave it to 'im at the workhouse, to 'elp 'im sleep. Almost a necessity to 'im now."

Brow creased with pity and understanding, Johanna murmurs, "How ghastly." She glances toward the doorway again. "You know, he looks terribly familiar. Have I seen him somewhere before?"

Mrs. Lovett stiffens but the movement is so subtle Sweeney thinks he only notices because he's looking for it. Her voice is light as she picks up her glass of gin. "I don't know, dearie, 'e could be any - "

Johanna snaps her fingers, eyes wide. "Of course! He's that horrible Pirelli's assistant, isn't he?"

"Why yes, I believe so," Mrs. Lovett says, gulping down her drink.

"I thought he had blonde hair?" Johanna asks, turning to look in the doorway once more, as though Toby might still be standing there for her to scrutinize.

"It was a wig."

"Oh." Johanna scoots the bottle toward Nellie, offering to fill her glass again. "What's happened to Pirelli, then?"

If he hadn't been listening so closely, Sweeney wouldn't have noticed the slight tremble in Mrs. Lovett's voice as she says, "I dunno, love. Blighter might've abandoned the poor thing. 'E just showed up one day lookin' for 'is master and never left."

Johanna smiles at her aunt from across the table. "It's awfully wonderful of you to take him in, Auntie Nell. Who knows where he would have ended up without you."

Mrs. Lovett offers a brief smile, patting at her hair. "Just me gentle heart, I s'pose."

The guilt that had alleviated with Johanna's earlier embrace comes rushing back like a tidal wave now and Sweeney glances away. He knows Mrs. Lovett must feel just as loathsome for lying to Johanna, but they don't have a choice in the matter. It isn't as if Mrs. Lovett can tell her the truth, and he visibly flinches as he imagines it. _"Actually, love, your father slit Pirelli's throat and we tossed 'im to the Thames. Thought it was only right to take in 'is apprentice afterwards."_

He shudders. Sometimes, lying is the only option.

--

Spending his afternoons in his barbershop is as painful as he had known it would be. Benjamin Barker used to shave clientele in here, with the sun streaming through the windows and his beautiful wife sitting nearby, holding their perfect child. The sun doesn't see fit to make an appearance, his wife doesn't like to venture inside this room anymore, and his child is downstairs - still perfect, but no longer comfortable in her mother's arms.

Even so, the past continues to close in on him. At first, Sweeney stands at the window or paces the length of the room like a caged animal, fighting down the urge to sling his blade at the wall. The sounds of rambunctious customers from the pie shop down below waft up to meet his ears and occasionally, he hears the sound of Johanna's laughter or Mrs. Lovett's shouts to Toby for more ale. Their voices anchor him and keep the past from swallowing him whole.

And then, quite without warning, _there he is._

It had only been a flash of grey hair at first, a glimpse of a green waistcoat. Standing at the window, nose touching the glass, Sweeney feels his heart begin to pound. The world starts to split open, tilt, and shift around him. Nothing makes sense.

Striding down the lane, hands in his pockets, chin in the air, Judge Turpin makes his way toward the pie shop. Breath coming so hard and fast it begins to fog the window, Sweeney can only stare. Looking for all of Fleet Street like the arrogant bastard he is, Turpin saunters ever nearer, whistling. Sweeney scans the courtyard frantically - Lucy must be inside, safely nestled in their upstairs parlor. She never did like being around Mrs. Lovett's customers.

Heart in his throat, Sweeney spots Johanna at a table outside, holding a pitcher of ale and leaning against a table, talking to a customer. He growls audibly, twitching hand automatically sliding to the razor hidden away in the holster at his side. If that filthy, miserable insect goes anywhere near his daughter -

Johanna glances up, still smiling, and spots Turpin entering the courtyard. The grin slides from her face immediately and she stumbles backward, clutching the pitcher of ale. Turpin nods to her with a pompous smirk and Sweeney snarls. Face white, Johanna turns abruptly, hurrying away into the pie shop, head down.

For a moment, Turpin stares after her. Then, he takes a seat, drumming his fingers against the table. Tearing himself away from the window with an enraged roar, Sweeney slams his shop door behind him, footsteps pounding on the stairs. He doesn't trust himself to look at Turpin without slicing his face open in front of half of London, so he keeps his eyes firmly on the ground until the pie shop door shuts behind him.

Mrs. Lovett isn't behind the counter, where she usually is, laughing and leaning close to gossip with a customer. Only Toby is visible, trying his best to attend to the teeming crowd on his own. Sweeney brushes past him, pushing his way through the mass of people to the kitchen door. Sliding inside and shutting the door firmly behind him, Sweeney stares at the sight in front of him.

Standing in the corner, Mrs. Lovett murmurs quietly to Johanna, smoothing her blonde hair soothingly. "It's alright, love. Just breathe, now. C'mon."

Johanna struggles to speak through panicked breaths, cheeks bright red and eyes welling. "He-I-I don't - "

"Sshh," Mrs. Lovett soothes. "Hush, love. I want you to take a deep, breath, you 'ear me?" Johanna nods and swallows, breathing deeply through her nose. "That's a good girl. Just keep that up now, eh? Don't you dare try talkin' right now or I'll slap you silly."

Johanna manages a small smile at that, clutching at Mrs. Lovett's arm as a child might to its mother's leg. Mrs. Lovett finally glances at Sweeney, her expression slightly panicked now that she isn't looking at Johanna. She draws Johanna a little closer and opens her mouth to speak when the kitchen door swings open and Lucy appears.

"Eleanor, you have that poor boy working - " She stops, taking in the sight in front of her. "What's all this? Johanna, darling, what on earth is the matter?"

Sweeney suddenly remembers what Lucy said to him, the day he returned._ I haven't seen him in years. _He whirls on her, watching her blue eyes widen in alarm. "What is Turpin doing here?" He grates out, trying his best to keep his voice level. He doesn't want to startle Lucy, he only wants to understand. "You said he left you alone."

Lucy pales, staring up at him mutely. "He _has _left me alone, Benjamin," she protests. "I haven't seen him in quite some time. I can't imagine what he's here for."

"Me." With her face buried in Mrs. Lovett's shoulder, Johanna's voice is muffled and she lifts her head. "He saw me at the Foster's home; he kept staring. The servants...they said..." She stops, gulping, and Mrs. Lovett whispers something softly. "They said he would leave me alone if I ignored him."

Mrs. Lovett snorts her disbelief. "Love, ignorin' that man is like givin' 'im an invitation to court. Your mother would know all about that - "

"Eleanor!" Lucy interrupts softly, startled. "You have no right to - "

"I'll kill him," Sweeney murmurs, ignoring them both.

Mrs. Lovett's answer is immediate. "I'll help."

Lucy gasps quietly. "Stop it, both of you. This isn't funny."

"Who said anythin' about bein' funny?" Mrs. Lovett scowls.

"That's quite enough," Lucy snaps, bright eyes suddenly cold. "Take Johanna upstairs, Eleanor. She needs to rest."

Johanna pulls away from Mrs. Lovett instantly, jaw set stubbornly. "Don't be ridiculous Mother, it's the dinner rush. I can hardly - "

"Your mother's right, love," Mrs. Lovett's mouth twists, as though saying the words has left a sour taste in her mouth. "Let's get you settled. Don't you worry your pretty 'ead about the shop. Toby'll serve whoever's left and close up for the night."

Johanna continues her protests, but Mrs. Lovett only nods in reply, absently muttering, "Of course, dear", as she pushes Johanna toward the door. Left alone in the kitchen, Sweeney and Lucy stare at the floor, neither of them willing to make eye contact.

"I would prefer if you did not speak that way in front of Johanna," Lucy finally says stiffly. "Murder is not something to be spoken of in jest and I will speak to Eleanor about it as well."

Slowly lifting his eyes from the floor, Sweeney finds Lucy alternating her gaze between him and her own hands. Brow furrowed, he rumbles, "I wasn't joking."

"Benjamin," she whispers, appalled blue eyes finally meeting his. "What are you talking of?"

Hands balled into fists, it suddenly dawns on Sweeney that Lucy would never understand what he had done. She would never be able to justify the killing of another - no matter the circumstances. Pirelli's death would taint him in her eyes, more so than he already is. "He sent an innocent man to that hellish island - "

"You have no proof of that, Benjamin," Lucy interrupts, eyes widening.

"Neither did he," Sweeney snarls. And then, the full weight of what she has just said steals the air from his lungs._ No proof. _She doesn't believe Turpin did it. She might as well have slapped him.

Lucy stares back at him, shocked to the core by his tone. "Benjamin, think about what you're saying. You're accusing a potentially innocent man - a prominent judge - of wrongfully accusing you. Why would he jeopardize his honor? Someone framed you, yes. But you have no way of knowing it was Judge Turpin." She sighs shakily, watching his hard expression. "And even if you could prove it...revenge will solve nothing."

Disbelief coupled with a powerful rage overwhelms him, driving him to whirl away from his wife, jaw clenched. How can she doubt him? How can she possibly defend the man who altered their lives forever, who sent him to hell with no remorse? The anger wells over and spews forth before Sweeney can stop it, and without thinking of the delicate creature in front of him or the way she regards him through a haze of tears, he slams his fist against the wall and roars, "He _won't_ touch my daughter!"

"Benjamin, please." A little sob escapes Lucy's lips and tears begin to slip down her cheeks. She chokes on her own words, struggling to speak. "Stop it. You're scaring me."

Her soft, strangled voice brings Sweeney back to himself and he lifts his gaze to find her shrinking into the wall, those bright eyes shining with tears. Her face is flushed and her breathing is heavy and uneven. He has never seen anyone look so frightened before in his life. His own wife is afraid of him. Throat closing over, eyes burning, Sweeney draws in a deep breath, wondering if this is how it feels to suffocate.

"Lucy," he begins softly, stepping forward.

Shutting her eyes, Lucy shakes her head quickly. Backing away slowly, she never takes her eyes from his as she inches toward the door - as though unwilling to let her guard down. She feels around wildly behind her for the doorknob and in a flash of lace and yellow hair, flees the room. Her light footsteps sound on the stairs as she hurries to their rooms, slamming the door behind her.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs to the empty room.

* * *

A/N - Gah, this chapter was SUCH a pain! I don't even know why. Lack of inspiration, mostly. But then I got going and it was fine. I actually had another part to add to this chapter, but is was getting really long, so I have to save it for chapter nine. Haha Anyhow, TREMENDOUS thanks to DojoGhost, who has been my sounding board and personal editor while Robynne is away. She's been so helpful with making sure I say everything I need to say, describe what I need to describe, and she's given me some really fabulous ideas. She's superhuman and needs her own special holiday where we can recognize her brilliance.

Not to be left out, Robynne actually managed to act as beta even while on vacation. She made sure I didn't make any stupid mistakes even while trying to enjoy the fabulousness of Greece. She may be superhuman as well. THANK YOU, Robynne!

Also, Robynne made me a Proof of Heaven banner forever and a day ago, but I forgot to mention it to you all. Haha It's gorgeous and the link is on my bio page. Also on my bio page is the link to a podcast I made with Robynne, wherein we discuss the character of Sweeney and Nellie, and generally act like the retards we are:D Anyway, the link is there if you want to have a listen.

Lilia-Rose - Thank you! I had an awesome holiday. It was nice to take a break for a week. And then I had to come back and start classes, which sapped up a lot of my writing time. But I eventually got around to it:D Andyeah, things are starting to take shape now. I'm really excited about it. Haha Thanks for reviewing!

Penelope - Haha, Johanna being gone sometimes definitely helps with Sweeney and Nellie's alone time. As for Sweeney's continued killing, you'll just have to wait and see:) Thanks for the review and good luck with studying!

sweenettfan - LOL, Thanks so much but Sweeney and Nellie won't be smooching just yet. These things take time:) I'm glad you like my writing, that's always wonderful to hear. Thanks for the review!

Mrs. Todd Barker - Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked the way I described Pirelli's death. It was definitely a tough scene to write:D Hoped you enjoyed the update!


	9. Always

_Proof of Heaven_

Eleanor hasn't felt so helpless since the day she stood on the dock with Johanna cradled in her arms and watched Benjamin Barker's ship disappear on the horizon. It takes several minutes for Johanna to calm down, and tear-filled eyes lock on hers, as though Johanna is begging her to make everything better. It used to be so easy when she was a child - a cut on the finger, a tangle in blonde locks or flour on a new dress. The answer to all of Johanna's problems was a cookie fresh from the oven, warm and gooey in small hands. Now, Eleanor is fairly certain Johanna could use a glass of gin.

Tucked snugly beneath layers of blankets, three fat pillows propping her up, Johanna takes deep, calming breaths, sniffling and clutching at Eleanor's hand. Her fingers are beginning to grow numb, but Eleanor wouldn't pull away for anything. Using her free hand to trace soothing circles on Johanna's slender arm, she murmurs, "You want some tea, love? Might 'elp you relax."

Johanna shakes her head quickly, her grip on Eleanor's hand tightening. "No, I don't want anything." She sniffles again, looking up at Eleanor with wide eyes. "Just stay with me. Please?"

Brushing blonde hair behind Johanna's ear, Eleanor nods with a soft smile. "Of course, my love. Wild horses couldn't tear me away."

Letting out a quiet breath, Johanna settles against her pillows. "I just don't understand, Auntie Nell. What does he want from me? Why did he follow me here? And the Fosters! He never visited the Fosters so often before, all the servants say so!"

"Johanna, love, you're not breathin'." Eleanor places a hand against the girl's cheek and sighs. "He wants you, obviously. Can't say I blame 'im - any man can see 'ow lovely you are. Turpin's a powerful man, love. 'E probably expects you to swoon that such a wealthy man is showing an interest in you; fall into his open arms and all that." She pauses, swallowing. "It's certainly what 'e thought your mother would do."

Johanna's eyes widen in horror. "H-he what?" With something remarkably similar to morbid fascination, Eleanor watches the realization dawn. "That's him? The corrupt man who took my father away? The man that Mother thinks is perfectly innocent?"

Lips pursed, Eleanor nods.

Johanna's eyes dart wildly around the room, searching the corners, the doors, every inch of the room, as if expecting to find Turpin lurking even here in the safety of her small bedroom. Her panicked gaze returns to Eleanor, and when their eyes meet, she wonders how Johanna's head doesn't burst under the force of that strain. It looks like it might, until something seems to snap out of place in Johanna's brown eyes, the intensity suddenly losing focus, draining out of her stare and her face. She frowns slightly. "I see," Johanna murmurs, eyes dropping to her hands, folded primly atop the blankets.

Frowning worriedly at the rather anticlimactic response, Eleanor watches Johanna carefully as uneasy silence descends between them - for the first time she can remember. Below, she can hear the murmur of voices, Mr. Todd sounding positively irate and Lucy even more timid and hysterical than usual. Even concentrating all her attention on their voices, Eleanor cannot make out a word of their conversation and she gives up, focusing on Johanna once more.

"I'm sorry I never told you before, love," she says, waiting for a reaction. "I told you all the horrible things 'e did without ever tellin' you 'is name. I thought I was protectin' you." She scoffs audibly, shaking her head. "Bloody 'ell, I sounded like your mother just now."

Johanna doesn't so much as blink, still staring fixedly at her hands.

Unnerved, Eleanor wrings her hands in her lap and continues. "Thought I was doin' you a favor – keepin' the name of the man who tore your family apart away from you." She swallows back the regret, realizing the words are painfully true as she says them. "I was wrong, love. You don't need anyone's protection and I think I did more harm than good, keepin' 'is identity secret all these years."

In the strained silence, the sound of Lucy's footsteps on the stairs is deafening and the two women listen as the blonde's bedroom door slams shut with enough force to rattle the windowpanes. Eleanor swallows dryly, wondering briefly what has gotten the darling wife into such a snit before Johanna once again becomes her main concern. The girl hadn't even flinched at Lucy's rather loud fit of temper.

"Love," she says quietly. "You're scarin' me. You 'aven't gone this long without talkin' since you learned 'ow. Say somethin'."

For a moment, Eleanor thinks Johanna will continue to ignore her and she prepares herself to settle in for a long wait. Then, with an air of resolve, Johanna lifts her eyes from her hands and meets Eleanor's gaze with enough intensity to send her reeling backwards if she hadn't been clutching Johanna's hand. For all her determination, Johanna's voice is soft, if not a little frightened as she asks, "What do we do?"

Eleanor smiles slowly – proud beyond words at Johanna's resilience – and strokes her cheek, humming softly. "Leave it to me, dearie."

XxX

When Johanna finally drifts off to sleep, tears drying on her rosy cheeks and fists curled tightly into her quilt, Eleanor presses a soft kiss to her temple and makes her way down the stairs to clean up for the night. In the parlor, Toby is passed out on the settee, clutching a bottle of gin and looking exhausted. Her heart melts and she smiles as she tiptoes over to pull the bottle from his grip. Poor lad must be tuckered out, tending to customers and closing up the shop without her help this evening.

Prying the gin from his hand, Eleanor brushes the boy's hair from his forehead and shakes her head fondly. She'd had no idea when she asked him to stay that she'd become quite so attached to the boy – or so grateful for his help. When she looks at him, curled up before the fire on her settee, looking innocent as a babe except for the smell of gin on his breath, Eleanor can't feel regret for what happened to Signor Pirelli.

She isn't surprised to find Mr. Todd in the pie shop – she hadn't heard him venture upstairs after Lucy's fit of temper – but he seems surprised to see her. Upon hearing her boots against the creaking floor, Mr. Todd looks up sharply, staring at her with startled eyes.

Smiling tentatively, Eleanor wiggles the gin bottle in her hand and the sloshing liquid inside is audible in the quiet room. "Care for a drink, love?"

For a moment, he looks at her so intently, with such a curious expression on his face, that she thinks he might refuse. Thinking back to her inappropriate caress upstairs earlier and the way he'd stared at her in shock, Eleanor cringes. However, instead of telling her to sod off, Mr. Todd blinks, glances at the sticky tabletop in front of him and says quietly, "Yes, thank you."

Something flutters in her chest and she feels a little less like crawling into a corner in shame, and Eleanor realizes she's relieved. This time, when she's poured his drink, she doesn't wait for him to invite her to sit with him. She takes the chair directly across from him and pours herself a glass. Mr. Todd doesn't look as if this bothers him, so she settles more comfortably into her chair and lets out a deep sigh. "Quite a day, eh Mr. T?"

Taking a generous gulp of gin and grimacing, Mr. Todd nods once.

The personal restraint it takes to keep her mouth shut about his fight with Lucy brings Eleanor almost physical pain, but she doesn't want to be caught prying too obviously. Deciding to try another tactic, she drums her fingers against the tabletop, smiling faintly when, after a moment, Mr. Todd glances at her fingers with a scowl. "Let me guess. Our darling Lucy doesn't believe the _honorable_ Judge Turpin 'ad anythin' to do with Botany Bay."

Mr. Todd glances up from his glass to look at her, surprised. He studies her face, and while Eleanor fights back a shiver, she doesn't look away first. Finally, Mr. Todd drops his eyes and asks gruffly, "How did you know?"

Slowly, Eleanor lifts her glass and takes a long sip, contemplating how to voice her thoughts without offending the man's esteemed opinion of his wife. Swallowing and licking her lips, Eleanor trails a finger over the table, stirring the puddle of gin that forms under the bottle, and frowns thoughtfully. "Lucy's a mite too trustin' for this world, Mr. T. People like 'er, wantin' to believe the best in people – they don't understand that sometimes there ain't a good side to a person. Sometimes they're just a slimy ol' git, make no mistake."

Sometimes, people shed their goodness – by choice or because the world takes it away from them – or they never really had it to begin with. Lucy, the silly nit, wanted to believe that everyone was inherently good. A man could break into the pie shop with a club and be caught with his hand in the bloody coffers and Lucy would believe he was trying to secretly donate money to their establishment before she'd believe he wanted to rob them of every last penny.

Eleanor frowns. Perhaps nothing quite so extreme, but she was bloody close.

Mr. Todd watches her continue to tap her fingers with a frown but refrains from asking her to stop. "What makes you so sure it was Judge Turpin, Mrs. Lovett?"

Letting out a short, disbelieving laugh before she can stop herself, Eleanor says, "Impossible not to know who it was. Bloke was always lookin' at 'er, followin' 'er, leerin'...Any man with 'alf a brain knew who was responsible when ol' Ben Barker was finally arrested."

Looking at her with something akin to gratitude, Mr. Todd gives her what she supposes is the closest he gets to a smile these days. Though he looks more pained than anything, she appreciates the effort nonetheless.

Gathering all of her courage, she blurts, "What are we going to do, Mr. T?"

"Do about what, Mrs. Lovett?" He asks, his voice dry.

"You know bloody well what," she snaps. "I remember all too well what 'appened the last time 'e started lurkin' about the pie shop. If it's all the same to you, love, I'd rather not repeat 'istory."

Instead of snarling at her like she expects him to, Mr. Todd glares at the vase of flowers on the tabletop as though it has mortally offended him, and Mrs. Lovett almost expects the lilies to wilt beneath his baleful gaze. "Lucy said Turpin has left her alone all this time. Is it true?"

Eleanor hesitates and Mr. Todd's sharp eyes notice right away. He says nothing but his hand tightens around his glass, fingers flexing noticeably. " 'E does now," she begins, watching his grip loosen minutely. "At first, Turpin didn't so much leave 'er alone as try 'is damnedest to 'ave 'er for the first couple of weeks after you were gone. Lucy - " the naïve twit " – wouldn't think of takin' 'im up on 'is _charitable offer_." She stops to roll her eyes and swallows disgust with a swig of gin. "Told Turpin 'e had no reason to feel guilty and that she and Johanna would get along just fine on their own. Said she loved 'er husband and wouldn't 'ear of bein' with any other man."

There are many things about Lucy that Eleanor does not understand, that she secretly mocks – the way she sniffs and turns up her nose when she sees something she doesn't approve of, the way she can't cook to save her own skin, or how blind she can be to the most obvious things in the world – but Lucy's devotion to Benjamin Barker is nearly unmatched. Eleanor cannot find it within herself to disrespect such loyalty.

Mr. Todd looks gratified at Eleanor's tale. Probably secure in the knowledge that however flighty his wife could be, and while she might not believe Turpin was the evil man he really was, Lucy had always been true to him. In fact, Mr. Todd looks so relieved that Turpin hadn't touched her that Eleanor wishes there wasn't more to tell.

XxX

_The night is damp and chilly. Eleanor wraps a shawl around her bare arms to ward off the cold and climbs the stairs to Lucy and Benjam-she stops, shaking her head-_Lucy's_ apartment. She is so used to putting the two names together, never one without the other. Lucy and Benjamin – like a title. As if neither one is complete without the other. As if they're one person, one unit. A family. She wonders if it will ever be Lucy and Benjamin again._

_The door at the top of the stairs is slightly ajar and soft light from inside floods the hallway. Eleanor steps from the shadows into the shaft of light and peers around the doorframe, drawing her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders. Inside the tiny apartment, Lucy is a flurry of movement, Johanna on her hip as she rushes about, gathering petticoats and stockings, scattering hairpins every time she turns too sharply. _

_Little Johanna seems to find it all very amusing, gurgling happily when Lucy drops a glove or a ribbon, mutters a soft, "Oh dear!" and bends down to pick it up. _

_Deciding to make herself known, Eleanor slips inside and clears her throat pointedly. Lucy turns quickly, blue eyes slightly wild. "Oh, there you are, Eleanor!" She smiles tightly. "I'm going out for a bit and I'll need you to keep an eye on Johanna. You don't mind, do you?"_

"_Of course not, love," she steps forward with a soft smile for the baby girl in Lucy's arms, taking the child and hugging her close. Johanna pats a chubby hand against her cheek. "Where are you off to in such a 'urry?"_

_Lucy smiles brightly, what Eleanor calls her 'hopelessly naïve and dense' smile. "The Beadle is coming by to escort me to Judge Turpin's ball. He says Judge Turpin feels just terrible about what's happened to Benjamin, and he wants to make things right."_

_Eleanor does not call it the 'hopelessly naïve' smile for nothing. _

_Trying not to sound too scornful, Eleanor glances down where Johanna is tugging rather forcefully at a red curl and gently extracts her hair from the fat little fist. "And…you believe this?"_

_Apparently, her tone is not quite innocent enough because Lucy glances up sharply. "Of course I do, Eleanor. Why wouldn't I?"_

_Eleanor sighs. "Love, you can't honestly expect 'im to send Benjamin home, do you? Judge Turpin is not a man to admit 'e made a mistake – powerful men never do. Too proud."_

_Lucy sets her jaw in that way that Eleanor knows she thinks is intimidating, though she's never been fazed by it. "I have to try, Eleanor. Judge Turpin is an honorable man and if he can help at all, I have to trust in him."_

_An hour and a half later, rain is pattering softly against the windowpanes and Johanna sleeps soundly against Eleanor's chest as she paces the length of the pie shop, biting her lip. The Beadle had come for Lucy and they'd dashed away despite Eleanor's oft repeated and loud misgivings on the matter. Something about the situation doesn't sit right with her and she can't seem to make herself just settle next to the fire with Johanna and wait for Lucy to return. _

"_Silly nit," she mutters to herself, rubbing a hand softly along Johanna's back. "I tried to tell 'er and it's 'er own bloody fault if she gets 'erself into trouble. I ain't 'er soddin' keeper."_

_She nods once to the empty pie shop, listening to the rain splatter against the pavement outside and batter the windows. Johanna shifts in her sleep, emitting a heavy sigh. _

_Huffing irritably, Eleanor swiftly reaches for her shawl and covers Johanna with it before stepping out into the rainy night, muttering about her bleeding conscience the whole way to Judge Turpin's mansion. Hair dripping and skirts sodden, Eleanor lifts her shawl to check on the dry, content infant in her arms as she turns onto the little lane where Turpin resides. "Your mother is a bloody twit. God 'elp us all if you've inherited 'er brains, love."_

_Coming to a halt outside the opulent mansion, Eleanor stands out on the sidewalk and stares. Of course, she's seen Turpin's house before but always in the light of day. Tonight, in the rainy mist, with the windows lit up from within, shadows dancing across the walls in extravagant twirls and refined music drifting out to her on the late night breeze, Eleanor thinks the place looks less like a prominent Judge's home and more like a den of depravity. Though, she supposes, considering who lives here, they're one and the same._

_Pushing open the wrought iron gate and stepping into the yard, Eleanor cautiously approaches the house and climbs the stone steps to the porch, her water-logged skirts trailing behind her and Johanna nestled safely in her arms. She tries knocking insistently on the door, but considering the music and voices coming from within, she doubts anyone can hear her. She gives this up as a lost endeavor and just pushes the door open, slipping inside. _

_Her impression of the mansion from the outside is tame compared to the one awaiting her from within. Silk, damask and velvet is draped everywhere, mirrors are arranged in just the right way to make her feel as though she's stepped into a carnival house and everywhere she looks are men and women dressed in their finest clothes. They're all wearing grotesque masks, drinking from champagne flutes and laughing as if they haven't a care in the world. One wouldn't think so many were outside begging for alms with the way this lot carries on. _

_Catching herself before she emits a very Lucy-like sniff of disapproval, Eleanor tightens her hold on Johanna and adjusts the blanket so that if the child wakes, the first thing she sees will not be the whimsical demon masks surrounding them. Drifting from the foyer into the fray, Eleanor winds her way around entwined couples, twirling dancers and almost trips over the violin player in the ballroom. _

"_Sorry, love," she says absently, peering around the room for Lucy and ignoring the violinist's glare. _

_It doesn't take long to spot golden blonde curls across the ballroom – Lucy is stumbling along the far wall, tripping over her skirts and clutching a glass of champagne. Her hair looks less than perfect for once, wisps and tendrils falling from the intricate knot at the back of her head to hang around her face. Her cheeks are flushed and her posture is sloppy. Eleanor raises an eyebrow, intrigued. Lucy looks utterly drunk._

_Jaw set and arms tight around the miraculously still-sleeping Johanna, Eleanor makes her way through the crowd and to Lucy. The blonde brightens when she spots Eleanor, smiling beatifically. _

"_Nellie, darling!" She says cheerily, her speak too slurred for someone drunk on champagne – and Eleanor can't remember the last time Lucy called her 'Nellie'. "How - " Lucy hiccups, " - lovely to see you here."_

_Lucy sounds like she's been lying in the gutter drinking rum for days and Eleanor bites down on the urge to scold her. Now isn't the time. "Yes, what a bloomin' coincidence." She swipes Lucy's drink from her easily enough, considering the woman's reflexes just now. She sniffs at it suspiciously. "'Ave you seen Judge Turpin?"_

_Lucy furrows her brow and mouths the words 'Judge Turpin' as if trying to figure out what it means and how it applies to her. She shifts her weight and steps on her skirts, barely managing to catch herself on the wall before she hits the marble floor. She giggles to herself, covering her mouth with a slim hand when a snort escapes._

_Exasperated, Eleanor shakes her head and sets down the drink before grabbing Lucy's arm. "Alright, love. I think you've 'ad enough. Time to go home now."_

"_Oh, I'd love to, Nellie, darling. Really, I would," Lucy gestures wildly and Eleanor grips her elbow more tightly, beginning to steer her through the crowd with her free hand. "But y'see, 'm almost certain there's something I need to do here…" She frowns thoughtfully. "And until I remember, 'm afraid I must stay."_

_By this time, they've reached the door and Lucy is too disoriented to even notice. Eleanor has no idea what Lucy has done with her shawl, but she isn't about to search for it. If Lucy happens to catch a cold, then serves her right for being so gullible. The twit is lucky Eleanor got to her before Turpin found her. _

_In the midst of guiding Lucy through the front door and out onto the porch steps, an all too familiar, nasal voice in the foyer makes Eleanor stop with a cringe. _

"_Going so soon, Mrs. Barker?"_

_Eleanor shoves Lucy out the door before turning on her heel and leveling a glare at the man standing before her in a red velvet overcoat, his mask hanging limply in his hand. "Yes, poor thing's all tuckered out. Thanks so much for the drink, dear." She turns to leave but Turpin grabs her arm, his grip hard enough to make her wince. _

"_Mrs. Lovett," he says silkily, eyebrow raised. "Were you on the guest list? I must remember to be more discerning in the future."_

_While Eleanor glares and mutters about not being caught dead at a brothel, Turpin's gaze focuses past Eleanor, to Lucy hovering near the street lamp outside, hanging onto it and grinning stupidly. His gaze lingers a little too long and Eleanor fights back a disgusted shiver on Lucy's behalf. She tries to yank her arm from his grasp but he merely tightens spindly fingers and looks down at her in stifled amusement. _

"_Mrs. Barker and I aren't quite ready to part company, Mrs. Lovett," he murmurs and she wrinkles her nose at his breath against her ear. "There is much we still need to discuss. I'll have my driver escort her home when we're through."_

_Eleanor continues to struggle against his grip but he doesn't relent. Baring her teeth, she sneers, "Sure you'd love that, wouldn't you? The lovely, _drugged_ Mrs. Barker all to yourself, hm?"_

_Turpin's eyes narrow. "I don't know what you are referring to, madam, but I can assure you that - "_

"_No, love," she interrupts shortly. "Let me assure _you_." Swiftly and without hesitation, Eleanor brings her knee up hard and Turpin's face crumples. He releases his grip on her arm in favor of clutching his groin. He sinks to his knees and gasps while Eleanor glares down at him. "I know what you're doin'. You stay away from Lucy Barker or it'll be worse next time."_

_Turpin, red-faced and watery-eyed, gapes up at her._

_Smiling pleasantly, Eleanor bends down to his level, mindful of the fussing babe in her arms. "I'll cut it off, love. Won't hesitate." She winks. "Do we 'ave an understandin'?"_

_He nods jerkily and she pinches his cheek._

"_Good. Lovely party, dear."_

_With that, Eleanor turns and climbs down the steps, brushing damp curls from her forehead. Turpin kneels there outside his door, watching them walk off down the lane – Lucy stumbling at Eleanor's side and Johanna's wail piercing the night._

_The next morning, Lucy wakes up with a headache and only vague memories of the night before. She accuses Eleanor of crashing Turpin's party and hauling her away before she had a chance to speak with the Judge._

_Eleanor, despite her annoyance, tries to defend herself. "Love, 'e put somethin' in your drink. You wouldn't 'ave wanted to talk to 'im when 'e found you. And talkin' was probably the farthest thing from 'is depraved li'tle mind, too."_

_Sitting up in bed and wincing at her pounding head, Lucy grumbles, "Don't be ridiculous. Judge Turpin may have a bit of reputation but he's an honorable man. And he did _not_ drug me - I merely had too much champagne. Honestly, Eleanor. I'm not a child." She sighs wearily. "Although, I'm quite mortified that I managed to get so drunk." Biting her lip, she looks up at Eleanor hopefully. "I didn't do anything too terribly embarrassing, did I?"_

_Feeling vindictive in the wake of Lucy's obliviousness, Eleanor shrugs and lies, "Oh, only if you call standing on Judge Turpin's dinin' table and singin' Twinkle Twinkle Little Star - which you dedicated to 'is draperies - _embarrassin'_."_

_Mortified, Lucy groans and pulls the covers over her head, curling up into a ball. She completely misses Eleanor's smirk as she slips out the door._

XxX

The supply of gin in the bottle has dwindled significantly in the hours following Mrs. Lovett's story. Sweeney Todd sits across from the baker, draining the last of the alcohol into a shot glass and tossing it back with zeal. He grits his teeth against the sting in his throat and directs his still-sharp gaze across the table. Slumped forward in her seat, head resting on her folded arms, and scarlet curls free from pins and spilling over the table, Mrs. Lovett is sound asleep.

Sweeney's mouth quirks as Mrs. Lovett's brow furrows in her sleep and she murmurs, "Forgot to tip…bugger."

He allows himself to watch her for just a moment longer before forcing his gaze elsewhere. His eyes land on the street outside the pie shop windows and he notices with a vague sort of detachment that the darkness outside is softening into something warmer and the damp cobblestones are beginning to shine with the very first rays of sunlight.

After Mrs. Lovett had finished her tale, Sweeney had been unable to think of anything but Lucy stumbling around Turpin's mansion in her drugged state and what might have happened if Mrs. Lovett hadn't come after her. His lip curls in disgust and he tightens his grip on his empty glass, wishing he had the energy to get up and retrieve another bottle.

The truth of the matter is that something must be done. Turpin is not a man to let go of something he wants. If not for Mrs. Lovett's rather _unique_ way of dealing with the man, Sweeney very much doubts he would have had a wife to come home to. Turpin is not about to just forget about Johanna – once he becomes fixated on one person in particular, he will plot, connive and cheat until he has what he wants. He will not loosen his grip until he strangles the life from his victim. Like a lowly snake, slithering on its belly through the grass.

Someone is going to have to destroy the snake before it sinks its fangs in.

Just as the sun peaks over the buildings outside and its rays pierce through the pie shop windows, landing on Mrs. Lovett's closed lids, Sweeney hears footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Lovett winces petulantly at the sunlight in her eyes, turning her head from it and blinking sleepily. She mumbles something along the lines of "Morning, Mr. T" before she rests her forehead against the table and groans in misery.

"Eleanor?" A voice comes from just down the hallway, and light footsteps let them know someone is coming into the pie shop. "Are you awake already?"

Mrs. Lovett stiffens immediately and lifts her sleep-ruffled head just as Lucy walks into the room, already dressed for work. Alert blue eyes meet bleary brown ones and for a moment, there is silence.

Curling her fingers around the doorframe, Lucy eyes them both with disapproval. "Benjamin, you didn't come to bed last night. Is this where you were?"

XxX

Waking up with a headache from hell itself and finding Lucy Barker's accusatory stare on her isn't a good start to Eleanor's day. It takes her a moment to understand why she has woken up in the pie shop, but when she does, she nearly groans aloud. It's the last time she has a late night glass of gin with Mr. Todd – the man could have at least woken her up before sunrise.

Straightening from her slouch and patting uselessly at her hair, Eleanor attempts a smile. "We were just 'avin' a drink last night, love," she says before Mr. Todd can fumble for a reply. She keeps her voice quiet, so as not to upset the pounding in her head. "Mr. Todd was kind enough to let me be when I passed out 'ere."

Lucy raises her eyebrows skeptically. "And being the gentleman that he is, he couldn't just leave you here and come to bed."

Eleanor refuses to be cowed by Lucy's dry response, beaming at her instead. "Quite right, dear. So glad you understand." She stands, pushing back her chair and wincing at the scraping sound it makes against the floor. She is _never_ sleeping at a table again if this headache is going to be her reward. "I'll just be goin' to check on Johanna, then."

"She's still asleep, Eleanor," Lucy says, her eyes on Mr. Todd now. "I looked in on her before I came down here." Tearing her eyes away from Mr. Todd, who looks distinctly scolded even though Lucy hasn't said a word, Lucy licks her lips and stares at the floor uncomfortably. "Thank you…for looking after her last night."

Eleanor nods and murmurs, "Of course dear."

The atmosphere in the room is wrought with tension and it makes Eleanor's skin itch. Mr. Todd's expression is one of anguish as he glares silently at the tabletop, unmoving. Lucy stands in the doorway, hands folded in front of her and her gaze glued firmly to the floor. Eleanor watches them with a feeling of detachment, uncomfortably aware that she doesn't belong. Rubbing awkwardly at the back of her neck, she opens her mouth to make a weak excuse to leave the room when Lucy finally looks up at her husband.

"Benjamin," she says and he glances up at her with hope-filled eyes. The look makes Eleanor's chest ache and she swallows painfully. "Don't you think you should ready your shop for opening? You know how gentlemen like to have a shave before work in the mornings."

Mr. Todd looks only mildly disappointed, and Eleanor supposes he's content to have her talk to him, no matter what Lucy actually says. It's enough just to hear her voice.

The ache intensifies – Eleanor resolutely ignores it.

Silence reigns as Mr. Todd stands and walks across the room, heavy boots clunking against the floorboards. When he reaches the doorway, Lucy reaches out with a hesitant hand and clutches at his arm. Mr. Todd freezes, turning slowly to look down at his wife. Lucy stares at her hand on his arm, as though shocked at her own boldness. She flinches only slightly when she meets Mr. Todd's gaze and Eleanor wonders what she sees there – whether Mr. Todd's eyes reflect the loss, sorrow and bloodshed his very being seems to exude.

Whatever she sees, Lucy manages a strained smile and says softly, "Have a good day, Benjamin."

The corner of Mr. Todd's mouth twitches. Eleanor isn't sure if it's from delight that Lucy is making an effort or merely annoyance at Lucy's continued use of his old name. Although, she's fairly certain the latter is only wishful thinking on her part. In any case, as Lucy's hand slips from his arm, he rumbles, "Of course," and strides from the room.

Neither woman moves until they hear his footsteps on the stairs to his shop. Not about to stay in the pie shop and let Lucy berate her for letting her husband drink, Eleanor moves to walk into the kitchen. She makes it to the door when Lucy's voice s stops her.

"He shouted at me."

Holding back a sigh, Eleanor pivots on her heel to look at the blonde. "What was that, love?"

"Last night, after you went upstairs. We had an argument and he shouted at me." Lucy's back is to her, rigid and posture-perfect. As always. The sun's rays are creeping over the buildings in the distance, piercing through the yellowed curtains of the pie shop and bathing Lucy in an ethereal light. It spins her hair gold and washes her white gown a faint pink. She looks like some strange goddess, so lovely that Eleanor feels washed out and meek in comparison. It's always been this way, but after Benjamin was gone, Eleanor stopped constantly comparing herself.

Swallowing back the sudden lump in her throat, Eleanor rasps, "Couples argue, love. S'normal."

Lucy shakes her head, turning to look at Eleanor. Her blue eyes are bright with tears. "Benjamin never raised his voice."

"That man is not Benjamin," Eleanor says quietly, suddenly feeling a strong wave of pity for the woman who lost everything. "You need to come to start acceptin' that or nothin' will ever change."

Blinking and causing tears to slide down her rosy cheeks, Lucy says in a watery voice, "I thought working in his shop again might change him, make him remember who he was." She takes a deep breath, reaching up a trembling hand to wipe at her eyes. "I don't know what else to do. Where is he, Eleanor? Where is my husband?"

Eleanor eyes Lucy curiously as she walks to the window, pressing a slender hand to the smudged glass and looking out into the street. "'E's in 'is shop, love. You know that – you just sent 'im there."

Lucy lets out a laugh that sounds more bitter than a scoff. "That man isn't my husband." She sighs shakily, her breath fogging the window glass. "I don't know what he is."

Her next words hurt to speak out loud, but Eleanor is nothing if not honest. "That man loves you. 'E'd give you the bloomin' moon if you asked for it. Isn't that enough to start over?" She thinks of Lucy's touch on his arm, of Mr. Todd's tender expression whenever Lucy is near. The way he looks at her like she's too far away for him to touch even when she's sitting right next to him. "You two could 'ave a life, you know. Maybe not like you dreamed it would be, or the life you remember…but you could get by."

Lucy sniffles, shaking her head as she lightly touches the curtains at the windows, holding yellowed material between her fingers. "I don't want to get by, Eleanor. I want my life – the wonderful life I've pictured we would have together all these years."

Exasperated and not sure how to make Lucy see reason, if nothing else, for Johanna and Mr. Todd, Eleanor slaps her hand against the doorframe. "Don't you understand, you silly twit? That's just a dream – a fantasy! And if you want to be truly 'appy, you're goin' to 'ave to let go of that."

"It's not that easy." Lucy sounds very close to tears again and this time, Eleanor feels no pity. "Why can't he be the way he used to be?"

"Because that's not who 'e is anymore!" Eleanor snaps, running a hand through disheveled curls, if only to keep from slapping some sense into the blonde. "Bloody 'ell, Lucy! Would you stop tryin' to make 'im be somethin' 'e isn't? Just stop it! Stop makin' everyone else miserable just because you can't find it in yourself to be 'appy!"

Lucy finally turns to look at her, glaring through her tears. "You think I don't want to be happy? Do you honestly believe that when he lies down beside me at night, I don't wish he would turn over and hold me?"

"If 'e did, you'd stiffen up like a bloody corpse and you know it - "

"This isn't easy for me, Eleanor!" Lucy shakes her head in frustration, looking down at her trembling hands. "I touched his arm, just a few minutes ago. I don't know why. I suppose I thought I might feel what I once did when I touched him – that familiar warmth and affection. The way I knew I was his world whenever he looked at me." She smiles sadly. "He looks at you that way now."

Heart in her throat, Eleanor breathes, "What?"

Lucy ignores her. "He looked at me with the same disappointment in his eyes that I've felt every day since his return." She remains silent for a moment, stoicly staring out the window again, her mind fifteen years away. "I see the way he looks at you. As if you're the only one in the world who could possibly understand him. He feels a kinship towards you."

Wanting to laugh at the absurdity of this conversation, at the idea of Benjamin or Sweeney Todd ever choosing someone like her over the radiant goddess called Lucy Barker, Eleanor begins to scoff, heart pounding, not daring to hope. "What -"

"Don't insult me, Eleanor," Lucy interrupts quietly. "I like to think I still know my husband a little." She sighs softly, running a trembling hand over the front of her bodice. "You are his only companion now."

"Stop it," Eleanor snaps, pale and determined. Lucy looks up at her, startled. "Don't you _dare_ put this on me. I'm just the only one 'e's got to talk to now. You're pushin' 'im away, dear. It ain't no one's fault but your own." She swallows painfully, hoping the lump in her throat will disappear and her voice won't catch on her next words. "You want 'im to hold you? Hold 'im first."

In the silence that follows her words, she and Lucy regard each other without animosity for the first time since Sweeney Todd walked through their door. Eleanor wonders if things will ever be the same between them again. Granted, things had never been perfect. She has never liked Lucy, but there had always been rare moments of camaraderie between the bickering. Now, standing on opposite sides of the room, a quietly beautiful man between them once more, Eleanor doubts they'll ever have that peace again.

Suddenly, footsteps come from the hallway leading into the pie shop and both women turn at a thump and a muffled curse, waiting quietly as Toby walks into the room. Sleepy-eyed and scratching at his hair, he yawns. Looking between them with a furrowed brow, he sniffs the air. "Do I smell gin?"

Eleanor snorts, and Lucy's mouth quirks before she can stifle the urge to smile. "It's in the kitchen, love. Just one glass, now."

Toby nods, yawning again as he stumbles into the kitchen.

Lucy clears her throat in the ensuing silence. "Well, I must be off. I'll be late, as it is." She turns to leave, but stops halfway across the room, a strange look in her eyes. "Look after them while I'm gone?"

Eleanor musters up a smile she doesn't feel. "Always, love."

* * *

A/N – Major props to Robynne, without whom, I would still be on page five. She bothered me every day and demanded a new piece of writing in her inbox before bedtime. She's a freaking Chapter Nazi and I don't know where I'd be without her.

Also, I'm so sorry that it's been five thousand years since I last updated. College has sapped a lot of my time, and I just lost myself in piles of homework and research papers and presentations. I definitely lost my momentum for a while. Not to mention the shiny, new allure of other fandoms. Haha But I slowly got back on track and managed to get this chapter finished. Hopefully there are still people out there to read it:D Also, there's a huge mountain of reviews in my inbox that I haven't replied to but I want you all to know how much I love and appreciate every bit of feedback you send me. And I promise to reply to the reviews for this chapter. How are you all, anyway? I've missed my peeps!

In other news, what the heck happened to the chapter breaks? That is so fricking annoying. It makes my stories look all jumbled! Sorry about that guys. Hopefully this new system of mine will work. Much love!


	10. Heaven's A Lie

_Proof of Heaven_

On the Friday two weeks after beginning her new job with the Fosters, the sun is shining brilliantly for once and the birds are twittering away in the trees as Johanna makes her way outside and nearly skips down the stairs to the pavement. Despite the rather difficult week she has had – Judge Turpin made it a point to visit three times – Johanna isn't worried. Of course, she had been at first. At night, she would lie awake and stare at the ceiling, too anxious to sleep but too distracted to join the other servants making merriment downstairs. However, now isn't the time to feel afraid. Today is the sort of day she reads about in fairy tales, where everything is going right for the heroine of the story and nothing can possibly get in the way. Today, Johanna is going home.

Weekends are hers, and nothing can take that away. Thoughts of Judge Turpin can wait until Monday.

In the streets, everyone seems to be enjoying the rare day of beautiful weather – children are running through the streets barefoot and not even properly dressed, young men and women are leaning out of carriages to call out to each other and smile at the blue sky overhead. It's almost as though the whole world and all of nature is as happy as she is this morning, and though the thought is a fanciful one, Johanna smiles at it anyway.

Clutching her bag to her side – stuffed with dresses and books for the weekend – Johanna turns to make her way to Fleet Street only to spot Anthony in front of her, leaning against a tree across the lane. Slouched in a way that still somehow manages to look elegant, Anthony has his eyes glued to a crinkled newspaper, his brow furrowed but a faint smile on his lips. Whatever he's reading, it's confusing him. Smothering the grin that instantly wants to bloom on her face, Johanna gathers her skirts in one hand and scurries across the street, darting between carriages.

Anthony looks up at her approach, beaming. Tucking his newspaper inside his jacket pocket, he relieves her of her bag and offers her his arm. She takes it with a shy grin. "And how is my lady this charming afternoon?"

"I'm well," she says with the right amount of proper stiffness her mother would be proud of, but that makes her want to burst into giggles. "And you, kind sir?"

Anthony gives her a slow smile, and the breeze lifts his sandy hair from his face. "Much better now that I have a lovely young woman on my arm, Miss."

Johanna laughs delightedly. "Alright, enough pleasantries. What were you reading before I interrupted you?"

"The horrible tripe that passes for a newspaper in London," Anthony laughs. "Part of the reason I love visiting is that the newspapers are so terrible. It amuses me. Is that horrible?"

"Yes," Johanna says without hesitation, giggling when Anthony looks shocked. "Well you can't criticize this city's newspaper and expect me to defend you. You're quite insulting."

At once, Anthony disengages his arm from hers and sweeps into a low bow. "My apologies, my lady. How can I amend for such an erroneous point of view?"

"You could buy me a bag of candy from that vendor down the street," Johanna offers, looking thoughtful.

Anthony straightens, contemplative. "I suppose I could…if your good opinion is truly worth two pence. I shall have to think about it."

Johanna lets out a scandalized laugh. "Anthony Hope, you're a horrible human being."

"Really?" He grins, regarding her from under dark lashes. "Then I shall strive to be better for you."

Johanna blushes.

XxX

Voices carry through the paper-thin walls of the pie shop, even when one isn't trying to listen. It's how Eleanor always knew when Benjamin and Lucy were having a disagreement – as rare as those moments were. She always knew when baby Johanna was fussy or amused, when Johanna had had a nightmare as a little girl. Now, with her ear pressed to the closed parlor door, Eleanor can hear every word Anthony Hope is saying to Mr. Todd and Lucy.

"I know that you both love Johanna very much, and I can assure you that I care for her as well. I would like your permission to court her, in the hopes of one day making her my wife."

Eleanor grins, glancing back at Johanna, who hovers over her shoulder anxiously. "'E just asked, love."

Johanna's eyes widen and she presses forward, nearly shoving Eleanor out of the way. "He did? What did Father say?" She tries to press her ear to the door with Eleanor. "What did _Mother_ say?"

"Shh," Eleanor hushes her, scowling. "I won't be able to tell you if you don't shut your gob, dearie."

Johanna nearly stamps her foot. "I can't hear anything!"

Sighing, Eleanor suggests, "Squat down there and look through the keyhole. Bet your father's about to go into a bloody rage."

Johanna crouches down and squints through the keyhole. "Hmm…Father's glaring. That's not a good sign."

Eleanor snorts. "'E's always glarin', love. That means nothin'. What's your mother doing?"

"I can't see her, Anthony's in the way – Ouch! You're on my hair, Auntie Nell!"

"Well kindly move out of my way, love," Eleanor stifles a laugh at Johanna's wounded glare, watching her clutch at her hair protectively. Holding out a hand, she helps Johanna to her feet. "Come on, let's 'ave a seat and wait for the verdict, eh? I'll fix us some gin."

Casting one last worried glance at the door, Johanna nods and follows Eleanor from the room. "Yes, I think a glass of gin would do my nerves well just now." She collapses into a chair in the kitchen with the dramatic flair normally only seen on the stage, and sighs. "What do you think they're saying?"

Carrying a bottle of gin and two glasses to the table, Eleanor smiles. "I'm sure your father is probably starin' the poor boy down, waitin' for 'im to quiver in 'is li'tle sailor boots and your mother is probably sayin'," she pauses, putting on a breathy, falsetto voice, "'Oh Benjamin, what a lovely young man. How charming! In fact, everything is charming! I love everyone – beggars, whores, flower girls and alcoholics. The world is a wonderful place! Anthony dear, is that your real hair?'" She flutters her eyelashes theatrically.

Johanna doesn't even attempt to keep a straight face, giggling uncontrollably into her glass and waving her hand. "Stop it, Auntie Nell. You're horribly wicked." She purses her mouth against another wave of laughter and attempts to look stern. "Now, I've been meaning to ask you something and now that we're alone…"

Eleanor, sensing Johanna's change in demeanor, sits up a little straighter and puts all thoughts of Lucy impressions out of her mind. "Of course, love. You know you can ask me anythin'."

Staring contemplatively into her gin, Johanna bites her lip. "I want to know what you think of Anthony. Your opinion is important to me and…" She trails off, shrugging self-consciously.

Taking pity on her, Eleanor smiles and pats her hand. In the past few days, Anthony has been pestering her constantly about asking Mr. Todd and Lucy for permission, whether they would allow their darling daughter to court a lowly sailor. Then, he'd gone and earned Eleanor's respect for eternity by asking for her blessing as well. She'd laughed, patted his cheek and given him a cookie.

Anthony is perfectly suited for Johanna, in character and personality alike. He's calm and mild, where Johanna is rambunctious and quick to laugh. Anthony is good-humored and charmingly child-like while Johanna has always been mature for her age, and far too cynical for her own good. At the same time, they're both well-read, curious, and eager to see the world. They complement one another in ways that tell Eleanor more than Anthony's speech to the Barker's ever will.

Instead of saying all this, Eleanor merely squeezes Johanna's hand and says loftily, "No one is quite perfect enough for you, love. But 'e's close enough."

XxX

_When Johanna is seven years old, she comes home crying after playing with the neighborhood children and runs straight into Lucy's arms. Eleanor and Lucy had been reclining in the parlor – Lucy knitting quietly and Eleanor trying to persuade her to play cards instead. _

_Shocked at her daughter's tears, Lucy pulls the little girl into her lap and asks softly, "Johanna, darling, what on earth is the matter?"_

_For a while, Johanna does nothing but sniffle into Lucy's gown, and Eleanor exchanges a befuddled look with the worried mother. "Joseph Washington," Johanna eventually manages, hiccupping as she tries to draw in a breath. _

"_Ah, now we're getting somewhere," Lucy smiles gently, lifting Johanna's face by the chin and wiping at her tear-stained cheeks with a lace handkerchief. "What about Joshua Washington?"_

_Wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her dress and missing Lucy's frown of disapproval, Johanna swallows and tries again. "He and his horrid friends were teasing me." She scowls. "And they wouldn't let me play with them. They said I would ruin their fun."_

"_Nonsense," Lucy fiddles with one of Johanna's braids. "You make everything better."_

_Johanna looks up at her mother pleadingly. "Won't you make them let me play, Mother?"_

_Lucy shakes her head. "If they don't want you to play, I cannot make them. Besides, darling, you should be playing with little girls. Wouldn't you like to play with Lorraine and Henrietta instead?"_

_Wrinkling her nose, Johanna shakes her head. "They're not fun at all, Mother. All they want to do is pretend their dolls are real babies and have tea parties! I want to play with the boys – they run and climb trees and - "_

"_Johanna, climbing trees is not something little girls or proper young ladies do," Lucy interrupts with a frown. "You know that. You belong with little girls your age, not Joshua Washington and his band of filthy followers." Patting her daughter gently on the head, Lucy pushes Johanna from her lap and stands. "I'll get you a cup of tea, darling. Stay put."_

_As Lucy sweeps from the room, Eleanor, who has remained silent through the entire conversation, takes one look at Johanna's dejected face and says quietly, "Oi! C'mere, love."_

_Johanna looks up, eyes still red and watery. "Me, Auntie Nell?"_

_Eleanor nods, motioning her forward. Johanna hesitantly approaches her side, looking wary. Eleanor doesn't want to interfere, but she cannot watch Lucy mould Johanna into her own image, stifling her curiosity and that wild nature Eleanor is so fond of. Little girls shouldn't worry about keeping their dress clean or how to host a tea party – Lord knows she never did. All children should have a chance to be silly, to explore and get their hands dirty. After all, they're only children for such a short amount of time. Why spend that time making them miniature adults? Eleanor has never understood the need high society parents have to rush their children through adolescence and straight into adulthood._

_Reaching for Johanna's hand, Eleanor pulls the girl to her side and whispers, "Your mother means well, love. She just wants you to grow up and be a proper lady is all. But you can't let 'er stop you from 'avin' a bit of fun." _

_Johanna's brow furrows and she looks up at Eleanor with impossibly wide eyes, so much like Benjamin's used to look when she said something particularly scandalous, that Eleanor almost smiles. "What do you mean, Auntie Nell?"_

_Hearing Lucy putting together a tray of tea and little cakes, fine china clinking together, Eleanor struggles with how to tell Johanna that it's alright to be exactly what she is – a child. "Next time that lit'le bleeder Joshua Washington tells you 'e don't want you playin' with 'im, you give 'im what for, understand? Ain't no reason you can't run just as fast as 'e can."_

_Johanna smiles brightly and climbs into Eleanor's lap. "I'm really quite fast, now. I've been practicing on the stairs."_

_Amused, Eleanor nods and tucks an errant blonde curl behind Johanna's ear. "I know, I 'eard."_

_XxX_

_Two days later, Johanna comes home from playing with her friends with a grin on her face and dirt on her white dress. Eleanor manages to get the stains out before Lucy comes home from work and sees them, and Johanna sits on the settee and hums to herself, looking quite satisfied._

_Eleanor doesn't think to inquire about Johanna's activities – the dress had been enough evidence of running and tree climbing – but when a rather angry-looking woman comes into the pie shop that night with a sullen little boy who refuses to look up, and asks for Lucy Barker, Eleanor thinks maybe she should have asked. _

_The woman returns from the upstairs apartment twenty minutes later, her nose in the air as she drags her son behind her out of the shop. Burning with curiosity, Eleanor climbs the stairs and knocks before letting herself into Lucy's sitting room. Johanna is nowhere in sight, but in the quiet of the apartment, Eleanor hears sniffling from the girl's bedroom. _

_Standing at the window, arms folded, Lucy says, "That was Mrs. Washington and her son Joshua."_

_Feigning disinterest, Eleanor glances around the room and says, "Awful late for a social call. Thought those upper class folk 'ad better manners."_

_Lucy's expression doesn't change, but she shakes her head. "Joshua came home with a black eye today and told his mother that Johanna did it when he refused to let her play marbles with him in the street."_

_Catching herself before she grins right in Lucy's face, Eleanor purses her lips and glances away. Remembering the way the boy wouldn't look up and kept staring at his shoes, Eleanor realizes he'd been trying to hide a swollen eye. Pride fills her and she meets Lucy's eyes without guilt. "Maybe next time 'e'll play nice."_

_This time, Lucy's jaw tightens and her eyes narrow. "Johanna is _my_ daughter, Eleanor, not yours. You have no idea what it's like to raise a child alone and wonder if you're doing it correctly or if - "_

"_I don't know what it's like to 'ave a child at all, love," Eleanor interrupts softly. "But in my opinion, you seem to be doin' alright. And you're not alone. You've got me."_

_Lucy shakes her head again. "No, I don't have you, Eleanor. Not when you're giving my daughter contradictory advice behind my back."_

"_I didn't tell 'er to punch the boy," Eleanor protests. "Although the bugger probably deserved it."_

"_That attitude is exactly why Johanna punched that boy," Lucy says, and her voice is nearly trembling with suppressed emotion. _

"_She was stickin' up for 'erself," Eleanor exclaims. "I'm bloody proud of 'er for not lettin' that li'tle tosser boss 'er around!" _

"_Don't you think it makes me angry to see my daughter treated that way?" Lucy shouts. "But it isn't proper behavior – running around with boys and being involved in fights! I won't have her growing up to be like - "_

_Lucy stops abruptly, looking regretful, but Eleanor has grasped her meaning perfectly. "Like me, you mean?" She asks quietly, looking at the floor._

_Taking a step forward, hesitant, Lucy says, "Eleanor, that isn't what I meant."_

_Drawing in a deep breath, Eleanor forces her expression into careful blankness and raises her chin defiantly. "I'd rather Johanna grow up like me than like a weak li'tle damsel who falls apart without a man to take care of 'er."_

_Lucy looks stricken but she takes another step anyway. Eleanor moves too, throwing open the door._

"_Eleanor - "_

_Her only response is the apartment door slamming. _

XxX

Looking at Johanna now, all grown up and smiling at her from across the table, Eleanor marvels at how time changes things. Johanna is no longer the odd little girl that none of the little boys want to play with, but a beautiful young lady they follow around in the market. Joshua Washington had wanted to court her, just last year. Johanna had laughed and sent the boy on his way, like a puppy with its tail tucked between its legs.

Instinctively, Eleanor knows that this time, things are different. Johanna will marry this boy – a far cry from Joshua Washington – and spend the rest of her life utterly in love. Eleanor imagines Johanna traveling the world, visiting all the places she's read about and collecting exotic treasures from foreign countries, sending letters home when she finds the time. The thought of losing her is almost physically painful. Eleanor wonders how selfish it is to hope that Anthony won't take her away – to wish desperately that she never has to know a day without the bright-eyed girl in front of her.

Eleanor shakes her head, blinking. She will not be Lucy. She will let Johanna go, let her do all the things the girl has always longed to do, things Eleanor couldn't afford to give her.

"I'm scared, Auntie Nell."

Glancing up in surprise, Eleanor stares at Johanna's troubled, sweet face. "Of what, love?"

"I know you'll think I'm terribly silly, but I don't want things to change," she says, and her eyes fill up. "I've already started another job away from here, and now Anthony and I are becoming rather serious. I'm just…scared. I like being here with you."

"Oh love," Eleanor breathes, reaching across the table to caress Johanna's soft cheek. "Change is always scary, it's not silly to be afraid. But change is a part of life, there's no escapin' it. Nothin' in this world stays the same forever."

Johanna reaches up and takes Eleanor's hand in her own, holding on tightly. "I know."

"As much as I would like to be selfish and keep you 'ere with me for the rest of my life, I can't do that. It wouldn't be fair to you." Eleanor smiles brilliantly. "You're goin' to get married, and 'ave your own babies, and I'll be there for that."

Johanna grins, looking more like herself. "You promise you'll be there to spoil my children and teach them all sorts of highly improper things?"

Laughing, Eleanor pulls her hand back. "Try and stop me, love."

At that moment, they hear the door to the parlor open and footsteps move toward them. They wait in silence, staring intently at the doorway. Anthony appears, looking pale but pleased. He grins at Johanna, nodding.

Letting out a girlish squeal of delight, Johanna jumps from her chair and rushes to Anthony. He catches her in his arms and spins her around, beaming as Johanna giggles and wraps her arms more tightly around his neck.

Watching them from the table with tears in her eyes, Eleanor smiles too.

XxX

A shriek, quickly followed by a loud bang, stomping and the clattering of dishes, brings Johanna, Anthony, Toby and Mr. Todd rushing into the kitchen to find Eleanor amidst the mess. Covered in flour, hair in disarray and frying pan gripped tightly in a raised fist, she stares intently at the floor, looking murderous.

"Auntie Nell, are you alright?" Johanna asks, and Eleanor looks up to find them all crowded in the doorway, staring at her.

Blowing a wayward curl from her forehead, Eleanor lowers the frying pan, letting it hang limply in her hand. "Just fine, dear. Saw a rat - li'tle bugger startled me, is all."

Johanna looks amused, Anthony is staring at the frying pan with wide eyes and Mr. Todd merely looks annoyed that he'd hurried to her aid only to find her defending herself against a sewer rat. However, Toby looks positively delighted, stepping away from the others eagerly. "A rat? Brilliant! How do we catch 'im?"

As the others disperse, leaving the kitchen to return to what they were doing, Eleanor pinches Toby's cheek fondly. "You can 'elp me find the arsenic, since you're so eager, lad."

Eleanor is almost positive she stored the arsenic in a cabinet somewhere in the kitchen, but as she and Toby turn the room upside down looking for the little bottle, she is beginning to doubt her own sanity. An hour later, with the kitchen in a state of chaos and no arsenic to be found, Eleanor admits defeat and sends Toby off to play cards with Anthony and Johanna in the pie shop.

Annoyed and disheveled, Eleanor leaves the kitchen without bothering to clean up, determined to search the parlor. Her plans change, however, when she finds Mr. Todd already there, staring into the fire with an unreadable expression on his face. His shoulders are lined with tension, and yet he still manages to look defeated.

Watching him then, Eleanor realizes he lost his little girl today. Of course, Johanna is just in the next room, laughing at Anthony's appalling lack of skill in cards, but Eleanor is sure Mr. Todd feels just the way she does. Johanna may live here for now, but in so many other ways, she has already left.

Eleanor takes pity on him, going back to the kitchen and returning with tea and a plate of cookies. "Alright, Mr. T?" She asks, putting her offering in front of him on the table. He nods, but says nothing. She nudges the plate further toward him, lifting an eyebrow. "'Ave some tea and cookies, love. They're Johanna's favorite."

Mr. Todd doesn't move to take a cookie or the cup of tea before him, but he lifts his eyes from the fire to stare at them. The man makes no sudden moves. He is precision personified – every move he makes and every word he speaks has a purpose and is entirely deliberate. It makes him fascinating to watch, and Eleanor doesn't realize she isn't blinking until her eyes start to burn. She turns away, cheeks flaming.

"Thank you," Mr. Todd says, so suddenly that Eleanor almost jumps.

She smiles. "You're welcome, dear. Tea's gettin' cold, though. Might want to take a sip - "

"No," Mr. Todd shakes his head, frowning. "I mean…thank you for taking care of Lucy. That night at the ball…" He trails off, eyes distant.

He is no doubt thinking of the night, several days ago, when Eleanor told him of Turpin's ball. Eleanor watches him brood, thinking of the way Lucy looked for weeks after that party. Just the way Mr. Todd looks now, vacant and troubled. As if nothing else is real or important except what exists inside his head.

With a sudden jolt, Eleanor realizes she knows exactly where her arsenic is.

Shaking with the possibility, Eleanor rises quickly to her feet. "Think nothin' of it, Mr. T. Have a cookie, love."

Not waiting for a response that probably will never come, Eleanor marches down the hall and up the stairs, where Lucy sits in her apartment. Not bothering to knock, she throws open the door and stands in the center of the room, hands on her hips.

Lucy looks startled, sewing needle poised in mid-air. "Eleanor, where are your manners?"

Hardly in the mood to play her part in Lucy's burning need for etiquette, Eleanor gives her a hard stare. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Lucy asks patiently, turning back to her sewing. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"You know bloody well what!" Eleanor snaps, moving forward and snatching the needle from Lucy's hand.

Eyes wide in her shock, Lucy rises from her seat, forcing Eleanor to step back. "Eleanor, I can assure you that I have no idea what you are referring to. If you would be so kind as to explain what you are shrieking about, perhaps I can help you and get back to my sewing."

Walking to the other side of the room, needle still in hand, Eleanor begins opening drawers and rifling through them, ignoring Lucy's indignant protest.

"There's a rat in the pie shop and I need the arsenic to poison the blighter. I know I put it in the kitchen, but I tore the bloody place apart trying to find the bottle and it's not there." She whirls around to face the blonde. "So I'm gonna ask you a question, love, and I'd like you to answer me honestly." She swallows, setting the sewing needle aside and squaring her shoulders. "Did you take it?"

XxX

For a moment, when Mrs. Lovett leaves him to scurry up the stairs, Sweeney only frowns and listens to her footsteps against the wooden steps. It is entirely unlike Mrs. Lovett to leave so soon into a conversation – she hadn't even begun to complain about the rat in the kitchen.

It has come to Sweeney's attention during the weeks since his return that in order to find out anything of importance, one has to either eavesdrop or ply Mrs. Lovett with quite a bit of gin. Considering his more recent thoughts, he decides mixing Mrs. Lovett and gin would not be in his best interest, and standing up, he heads for the stairs. Raised voices meet his ears the moment he plants one foot on the bottom step and he tilts his head, listening.

"_Did you take it?"_

At the sound of Mrs. Lovett's voice, hard as steel, Sweeney takes another step, and then another, pausing in the middle of the staircase. When Lucy responds, she sounds positively irate, her voice breathless and shocked.

"_I cannot believe what you're insinuating - "_

"_Don't you play the victim with me, Lucy Barker! You know very well why I'm askin' you – it ain't like you got a clean record, is it?"_

For a moment, neither woman says anything and Sweeney shifts restlessly on the stairs, his mind racing.

Finally, in an irritated tone, Lucy snaps_, "Don't you think if I wanted to kill myself, I would be intelligent enough to buy my own arsenic, rather than stealing yours?"_

Mrs. Lovett's response is soft, almost apologetic. _"Sometimes, love, I don't know what to think when it comes to you."_

In a slightly hurt voice, Lucy continues, _"I _did_ take your arsenic, Eleanor, but only to move it into a drawer in your bedroom. It's unseemly to keep poison in the kitchen."_

Whatever Mrs. Lovett says in reply, Sweeney will never know. Thoughts buzzing unpleasantly with ghastly possibilities and scenarios, he carefully descends the stairs and retreats to the parlor, body numb. He isn't sure how long he sits on the settee, the fire's warmth never registering in his subconscious as he thinks over everything he has heard.

Eventually, Mrs. Lovett comes back downstairs, and when she passes the doorway to the parlor, he calls out to her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He hears her stop mid-step, and he stares at the doorway until she appears, looking pale and uncertain. "Tell you what, love?"

"About the poison."

If possible, Mrs. Lovett pales even further, all the blood draining from her face. It makes her fiery curls look unnaturally vibrant, as if it belongs on a china doll, rather than a grown woman. "What are you - "

He tears his eyes from her, turning back to the fire. "I heard," is all he says.

Mrs. Lovett releases a shaky sigh and he sees her running a trembling hand over her ashen face. For a moment, nothing is heard in the parlor but the merrily crackling fire. Mrs. Lovett moves slowly to the settee, sitting next to him.

She stares at her hands for a long time, hardly blinking. "Lucy was a right mess after you were taken, Mr. T."

"Tell me," he growls, and she surprises him by looking unfazed at his tone.

Instead, she glances up and sighs. "Fifteen years ago, I found a bottle of arsenic in a drawer while I was cleanin' the upstairs apartment. Lucy saw me 'oldin' it and tried to wrestle it out of my 'ands, shriekin' about 'ow she needed it, 'ow she couldn't take livin' without you anymore." Mrs. Lovett stops, shaking her head. "She was always puttin' a drop in 'er tea, for 'er complexion and the like…so I didn't think much of it when I found the bottle. It was only when she fell at my feet, beggin' me to let 'er take it, that I knew she wasn't plannin' on usin' just a drop." Slowly, Mrs. Lovett looks up, her brown eyes meeting his. Sweeney is rendered breathless by what he sees there, though he couldn't put a name to it if he tried. He looks away quickly, not ready to lose himself in them. "Never let 'er 'ave arsenic in the house again, after that."

Speechless, Sweeney finds himself staring at the hem of Mrs. Lovett's dark dress, mind reeling. He isn't quite ready to face what this all means – the reality that Lucy hadn't been as strong as he'd always thought she was, that he wouldn't have had a family to come home to if not for Mrs. Lovett.

Mrs. Lovett reaches out a tentative hand, curling her fingers around his arm. Her touch feels like fire, even with a layer of cloth between them, and Sweeney can't stop a sharp intake of breath. Mrs. Lovett doesn't seem to notice, watching him with large, pitying eyes. "I'm sorry, love."

He nods dazedly, standing as if in a fog. "Excuse me, Mrs. Lovett. I believe my wife and I have things to discuss."

XxX

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not as if that was the best topic to welcome you home with!" Lucy protests, staring at him in disbelief. "It's in the past, I just wanted to forget it."

"What would have happened to Johanna?" He asks, his voice nothing more than a snarl. "She needed you – how could you even _think_ of being so selfish? What would have become of her, without you?"

Lucy fiddles with her handkerchief, eyes tear-filled. "I assumed Eleanor and Albert would care for her."

It's as if his wife has become another person right in front of his eyes – Sweeney had never thought Lucy would be cowardly enough to think of doing something so drastic. She had actually reached a point of such desperation, had lost hope so deeply, that she had been willing to leave their daughter alone in this world, with only the vague hope that Mrs. Lovett and her husband would look after her. He had always thought his wife so much stronger than that. He had promised her he would come back for her and Johanna. Hadn't she believed him? Hadn't she cared that he could have braved the horrors of Australia, only to come home to a dead wife?

"Are you angry with me?" Lucy asks timidly, studying his stoic countenance.

Sweeney shakes his head in frustration, wondering how she could possibly think otherwise. What would he have done if he'd come home to find his wife dead and his daughter in a workhouse, or worse? Speaking through clenched teeth, he says, "If you had really - "

"It doesn't matter now," Lucy interrupts, her voice tinged with desperation. She fists her handkerchief, twisting it into knots, her expression pained. "Eleanor stopped me; you're home and everything is fine now. I don't want to discuss this."

He says nothing, jaw tight and hands balled into fists at his sides. He struggles to take in a deep breath, seething.

Lucy must sense his ire because when she takes a step toward him, it's careful and hesitant. She rests a hand on his arm – her skin warm but unable to set his whole being on fire the way someone else does so effortlessly. "I was desperate, Benjamin. I was missing you dreadfully and I thought I would never see you again. Can you blame me for being driven to such lengths?"

Not bothering to answer, Sweeney glances at her out of the corner of his eye and sees Lucy gazing up at him with grim determination in her eyes. Slowly, she takes another step, nearly pressing herself against him. His heart leaps into his throat and the sound of blood rushes in his ears as he realizes his wife's intentions. He's been waiting for so long…

Looking like a frightened doe, ready to run at the first sign of danger, Lucy leans in with a timid smile, her movements shaky and unsure. Haltingly, avoiding his intense stare, blue eyes fixed firmly on his mouth, she presses her puckered lips to his in a gentle kiss. Her lips – impossibly pink and thin – are warm and soft over his. She hasn't been so close to him since the day he came home, and he can smell vanilla and lilacs.

Lucy's kisses were always so inviting and irresistible to Benjamin. He vividly remembers the rush of longing and pure, unadulterated love that came washing over him whenever Lucy's lips would brush against his own. He could never get enough of her – pecks on the cheek, his lips lingering on her forehead in the morning as she slept beside him, passionate, arduous kisses in the night. To Benjamin, Lucy's lips had always been a sweet wine, one he never minded getting drunk on.

But now…Sweeney feels nothing.

He realizes with sudden clarity and devastating, gut-wrenching horror, that he feels nothing but the warm contact of her lips and a strange, melancholy sadness for what he once had, and is now lost forever. No flood of affection and yearning washes over him, his legs do not long to step closer to Lucy's willowy frame, so that he may press himself against her. His hands do not itch to bury themselves in her yellow hair and deepen their kiss. He does not feel the desire to lift her off of her feet and carry her to their bedroom, the way he so often used to long ago.

Lucy pulls away awkwardly, touching her lips with her fingertips, bright blue eyes darting up to meet his quickly before glancing away again, a lovely, shy blush coloring her pale cheeks rosy. She looks beautiful, like an angel. Like the dream that kept him going for so long on the other side of the world, the reason he fought so hard to stay alive.

And he feels nothing.

* * *

A/N – Yes, women actually used to put a drop of arsenic in their tea for their complexion back then. Talk about willing to do anything for beauty. Haha And thanks to DojoGhost for sharing that useful bit of information with you. She's a freaking Info Guru:) And lots of love to Robynne for being such a fantabulous beta. I would be utterly lost and drooling all over the place without her. Thanks so much for you reviews! Knowing what you all think is very important to me. Aren't you glad it didn't take a year for the next update?

Mariana – Thanks so much for the review! I'm glad you're sticking around for the rest of the story:)


	11. Delicious Torment

_Proof of Heaven_

Hyde Park is a sea of people. It seems as though everyone in the city is milling about the park, taking advantage of another beautiful day. London has been plagued by sunny skies for the past three days, and although Eleanor has to wonder at the sudden change from clouds and rain, she isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, Johanna's birthday deserves such fine weather.

Seated comfortably on a large picnic blanket underneath a towering oak tree, Eleanor watches Toby drag Anthony off to help him get his new kite in the air. Johanna had bought it for him when she'd learned they were headed to the park for the day, and Eleanor thinks it couldn't be more like her to give others gifts on her own birthday. Sitting next to her in a brand new pink frock from her mother, Johanna munches on a cookie and hums contentedly to herself, blissfully unaware of the tension between the three adults on the blanket.

Lucy hasn't spoken to her since Eleanor had accused her of taking the arsenic two days ago – and Eleanor genuinely feels terrible about that, but honestly, what else was she supposed to think? Lucy could have at least informed her that she'd moved the poison. In any case, the women haven't done much but exchange frosty glares since Friday.

Furthermore, it hasn't escaped Eleanor's notice that Mr. Todd hasn't so much as looked in her direction since their conversation about Lucy's brush with suicide. He has been very careful ever since not to be in the same room with her alone.

She isn't sure what happened between Mr. Todd and Lucy, but there is an obvious tension between them that Eleanor can't quite fathom. All in all, the only people speaking to Eleanor at the moment are Johanna and Toby. Johanna hasn't noticed the odd strain between them all; Anthony is a marvelous distraction for the girl. Eleanor has done her best to hide it. She couldn't bear to see the look on Johanna's face if she found out what her mother had been so ready to do. Johanna's relationship with Lucy is already strained – finding out Lucy had been willing to leave Johanna alone in this world just might damage their relationship beyond repair.

Anthony and Toby stand several yards away, Anthony holding the kite and Toby clutching at the tail. Both of them are staring up at the sky with their brows furrowed. Watching Anthony lick his finger and stick it in the air to test the wind, Eleanor suppresses a laugh. How that lad made it as a sailor is beyond her. Surely he must be some wealthy Lord's rebellious son, because she's never encountered a sailor quite so careful and refined in his every action as this boy. Eleanor sneaks a glance at Johanna to see her smiling in his direction, her eyes sparkling with mirth and affection.

The girl is hopelessly smitten.

A warm breeze rifles the leaves on the trees and brushes Eleanor's curls from her forehead. She lifts her face to the wind and sighs, smiling a little. It's hard to be in a bad mood when the day is so lovely. This morning, she had risen early to bake Johanna's cake so she could have some when she finally tumbled out of bed. For breakfast, they'd had cake and a glass of gin – before Lucy woke up, of course. It's hard to believe she came into the world seventeen years ago; it seems like another lifetime ago when she'd learned of Lucy's pregnancy. She vividly remembers the brokenhearted ache she'd felt, the burn of tears in her eyes even as she'd hugged Benjamin and murmured her congratulations into his starched collar.

Now, she can't imagine her life without the little imp sitting beside her, nose buried in a book – a gift from Eleanor this morning. Sensing her gaze, Johanna looks up from _The History of Tom Jones_ with a smile. The book is positively rife with prostitution and promiscuity, but Eleanor had decided Johanna was old enough for the material. Johanna has wanted it for ages, out of mere curiosity, but Lucy always refused to buy such 'absolute filth'. Eleanor hadn't been predisposed to outright defy Lucy's wishes until now. By the look on Lucy's face when she saw the leather-bound book, she had been furious, but one of the many advantages of her not speaking to Eleanor was that she couldn't express her supreme disapproval.

Leaning back on her hands and turning her face up to the sun, Eleanor closes her eyes. "Learning anythin', dear?" She asks with a smirk.

Johanna's laugh is scandalized, and Eleanor opens one eye to see her glance quickly at her mother to see if she'd heard. Lucy's thin-lipped gaze gives her away. "Auntie Nell, _honestly_."

"Just askin'." Eleanor shrugs innocently. "Might be somethin' in there I 'aven't figured out yet."

Lucy's resentful sniff reaches her ears, and Eleanor doesn't bother to hide an outright grin. She hears the rustle of skirts, but doesn't open her eyes as Lucy says stiffly, "Benjamin, I wish to take a walk. Would you care to accompany me?"

Though Mr. Todd's reply is not verbalized, Eleanor doesn't need to look to know what his answer is. No matter that they've had an argument and probably aren't speaking, no matter that Lucy still calls him by another man's name, Mr. Todd would still follow her to the bloody ends of the earth.

When she opens her eyes, they're strolling through the grass toward the paved walkway, Lucy twirling her parasol and Mr. Todd looking decidedly out of place. Eleanor giggles and reclines on the blanket, staring up at the sky with her hands behind her head.

Johanna looks down at her, shaking her head in amusement. "You're indecent."

Ignoring her, Eleanor squints at a cloud. "That one looks a bit like muffin with frosting. What do you think?"

For a moment, Johanna says nothing and Eleanor thinks she might go back to her book. Then, with a sigh of exasperation, Johanna reclines next to her, directing her gaze to the cloud Eleanor points to. She copies her aunt's squint and scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous, Auntie Nell. That's clearly an elephant wearing a top hat."

Eleanor raises an eyebrow and remarks dryly, "Yes, that's much more logical, love. Don't know what I was thinkin'."

"Auntie Nell?"

"Hmm?"

"What does love mean?"

Eleanor props herself up on one elbow and stares down at her niece. "Where did that come from?"

Johanna frowns. "I've been thinking about it practically my whole life – I even asked Mother once."

Lying on her back once more, Eleanor directs her wry smile at the clouds. "And what did she say?"

"I remember climbing into her lap and asking her what love meant," Johanna begins, sounding relaxed and thoughtful. "She ran her fingers through my hair and said it was how she felt about me." She smiles softly. "I remember leaning into her and wanting any attention she would give me – she smelt of lilacs, I think. And I said, 'I meant how you loved daddy'. She stopped playing with my hair, so I sat up and she had tears in her eyes. She asked me to go play, and I recall being very distraught that I'd upset her. I never thought to ask again until now."

The feeling and detail Johanna can manage to put into one memory never ceases to astound Eleanor, and for a moment, she can do nothing but think of a blonde cherub of a girl sitting on her mother's lap and asking the question no one really knows the answer to. And then she begins to genuinely think about it. What does it mean to love someone?

Staring intently at the Muffin-Elephant cloud, Eleanor begins quietly, "It can mean anythin', and it usually does, to different people. Take your books, for example." If she's going to try to explain this, she should at least try to explain it in terms Johanna will understand. "For some, like Heathcliff and Catherine, it means somethin' obsessive and miserable. And then there's Romeo and Juliet, who felt so much they died for it."

"What about you, Auntie Nell?" Johanna asks, and Eleanor waits patiently for her to elaborate. "Did you love Uncle Albert?"

Shaking her head, Eleanor offers the sky a tiny smile. "Not the way you're s'pposed to love your husband, no. But I did love 'im in my own way. The question isn't what love feels like, though, because you won't know until it 'appens. It's special for each and every person, never the same. The real question, my heart, is what to do with it once you've found it."

Johanna laughs softly. "I like that answer much better than 'Mummy's very busy, darling. Please go and play with your dollies.'"

Snorting, Eleanor says, "Glad to be of service."

"Auntie Nell?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

Swallowing painfully, licking her suddenly dry lips, Eleanor answers softly, "Just once."

Johanna shifts next to her, turning to look at her, but Eleanor doesn't take her eyes from the sky above. "What did it mean to _you_?"

Lips lifting into a sad smile, Eleanor sighs. "It meant letting 'im go, dear."

They spend several long moments in silence, listening to the wind rustle through the trees and the vague murmur of other people in the park. As if sensing the melancholy mood suddenly blanketing them, Johanna sits up and reaches out a hand to a particularly unruly patch of grass. Turning toward Eleanor with a mischievous grin, she blows a dandelion directly into her aunt's face.

Spluttering indignantly at the white fuzzies clinging to her hair and eyelashes, Eleanor sits up. "You li'tle brat, I'll get you for that."

Johanna giggles, scrambling off the blanket. "I'm afraid it will have to wait, Auntie Nell. Anthony will never get that kite in the air without me!" She begins to scurry off, only to turn a few steps later, still grinning. "It's a good look on you, by the way!"

Eleanor merely offers her a rude gesture and Johanna's cackle of delight makes her smile despite herself. Sitting up, she brushes herself off and watches as Johanna reaches the boys. Tangled in the kite tail, Anthony looks relieved to see her, and allows her to take over without complaint.

Eyes wandering, Eleanor scans the crowded park until she spots Lucy's blue parasol very far off. She sighs, looking around the empty blanket and leftover food, thinking that maybe things had been normal and a trifle boring before Sweeney Todd showed up on their doorstep, but at least things had been simple.

XxX

Since his return several weeks ago, Sweeney has shared a grand total of two kisses with his wife. The first had been made up entirely of a longing fulfilled. It had been frantic and thoughtlessly violent on his part. It had tasted of home. The second kiss had been quite the opposite. Its composition had been that of desperation and tentative hope. It had been too soft, too gentle. Sweeney's mouth had tasted faintly of defeat for hours afterward.

Since then, Lucy has been unable to look directly at him – preferring instead to stare at his shirt collar whenever she speaks to him, her voice soft and awkward. Whatever they had been searching for in that kiss, they hadn't found it.

To his utmost horror, he's found himself wondering what someone else's kiss might feel like, how it might taste. Willing to do anything to stop the treacherous thoughts, Sweeney has done everything he can to avoid Mrs. Lovett. He goes to bed when Lucy does, he never sits alone in the parlor, he keeps away from the kitchen when he knows she's in there. He hasn't had a glass of gin since Friday afternoon.

When a picnic was suggested this morning in honor of Johanna's birthday, a part of him had been relieved that he wouldn't have to spend another day avoiding Mrs. Lovett in the little pie shop. So he sits next to Lucy on the blanket and very carefully keeps his eyes from flitting in a certain direction. He walks with Lucy through the park, her arm in his, and they try to pretend they have things to say to each other.

At last, the hour comes when it's time to pack their picnic back into a basket and begin the walk back to Fleet Street. It surprises Sweeney when, instead of Lucy, Johanna comes up to him and threads her arm through his with a smile.

"I thought we might walk back together," she says shyly. "Since Anthony insists on carrying the picnic basket and escorting Mother."

Sweeney glances in their direction, and several paces ahead of them, Anthony and Lucy are walking arm in arm, followed by Mrs. Lovett and Toby. He looks away quickly to Johanna's smiling face.

"Besides," she says. "I've been meaning to speak with you."

Eyebrows raised, he murmurs, "Have you, now?"

She nods, but says nothing else for a while. Watching her closely, Sweeney thinks she must be working up the courage to ask him something, with the way she's frowning and looking determined all at once. He allows her all the time she needs, and they walk in companionable silence. In the meantime, Sweeney tries his best not to look at the two women walking ahead of them, having their own conversations with their companions. He also tries not to think about the fact that today is his daughter's seventeenth birthday and he has missed so much that sometimes he wonders how he can bear it. It's a struggle to keep his mind away from the two subjects it most wants to dwell on, but he manages well enough.

Finally, Johanna sets her jaw and looks up at him with warm brown eyes. "I wanted to ask you about marriage."

It's the last thing Sweeney expected to hear, and he can do nothing but stare at her.

Johanna surges ahead without him. "It's just that I've heard so many wonderful things from Mother and Auntie Nell about your marriage – about how happy you made Mother and utterly blissful the two of you were. Are." She glances away. "Were, I suppose. I know it's a bit early to be asking these sorts of questions, but you know how impatient I can be."

'_How utterly blissful the two of you were.'_

It's not untrue. They used to be so happy – Sweeney remembers the sunny days of his marriage with such intensity that he could almost live them over again. He remembers Lucy's soft laugh and the way her eyes sparkled when he'd said something particularly romantic. There were trips to the market where they tried on scarves and hats to be silly, and later, sunny afternoons in the park with their beautiful baby. Sweeney spent a lot of time during his imprisonment dwelling on his family and how happy they had been, determined not to ever forget that he had a reason to come out of that hellhole alive.

Casting about in his mind, he tries to remember if Benjamin had some sort of philosophy that he adhered to when it came to his marriage. For the life of him, he can't remember. "Honesty," he says, swallowing heavily. "And trust…are very important."

Johanna seems to be listening with rapt attention. He wants to tell her how important it is to communicate, to let Anthony know when something is bothering her, because, as a man, Anthony will be utterly clueless unless she comes right out and says something. He wants to tell her that laughter is vital in a marriage, that it's okay to be ridiculous and silly when the occasion calls for it. He wants to tell her so many things, but he can't. He would sound too much like a hypocrite.

All the things he wants to teach her are the things he and Lucy no longer have – the things they can't seem to bring themselves to do. Sweeney wants to tell Johanna this too, but he can't seem to make his mouth work.

Thankfully, his daughter takes pity on him. Squeezing his arm, she says with a soft, understanding smile, "It's alright, Father. I know this must be hard for you."

Sweeney nods and looks away, unable to look in Johanna's eyes just yet. Instead, he looks ahead and finds his gaze landing directly on Mrs. Lovett's fiery hair as she throws her head back and laughs at something Toby has said, reaching out to smack the lad on the back of the head. Remembering his own resolve, Sweeney swiftly glances away again.

A look at Johanna's faint smile tells him she had seen Mrs. Lovett's display as well. "I just have one more thing to ask you."

Rattled from even that cursory glimpse of the forbidden, Sweeney can only grunt his acknowledgement.

"I'm already spending most of my time living with the Foster's, and I'm afraid that after Anthony and I are married, I'll be spending even less time at the pie shop," Johanna looks pained by the knowledge, biting her lip for a moment before she forges bravely ahead. "I know you'll already be looking after Mother, but I want you to promise me that you'll take care of Auntie Nell, too."

Sweeney nearly stops in his tracks, and Johanna seems to notice his suddenly stiff posture, because she glances up at him in surprise and hurries to explain herself.

"I know she puts on a good show, and she really _can_ look after herself, but I don't want her to _have_ to. Do you understand? She's taken care of me since I was a baby, she's made sure Mother and I had a place to stay and food to eat. She's been so good to us, Father. She's the best friend I ever had, and she's also like my mother." Johanna looks up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I worry about her, that's all. I don't want her to be alone – she doesn't do well without people. Please just…look out for her. For me?"

Unable to answer, Sweeney only stares at his daughter. Can it really be that Johanna is asking him to look after the very person he has been trying his damnedest to avoid? Surely his life isn't so full of such cruel irony.

Brow furrowed in worry, but more composed, Johanna continues, "I wouldn't have asked you, but I thought since you and Auntie Nell were such good friends before you went away, it might not be such a burden for you." Fingers digging painfully into his arm, Johanna stares ahead at Mrs. Lovett's figure in the distance. "Promise me, Father? Please?"

Up ahead, the pie shop is coming into view. In the twilight of the evening, it looks forlorn and oddly forgotten, even as surrounded as it is by people and buildings. Sweeney feels a strange kinship toward it just then, filled with memories of a past life and looking far too broken to have much of a future. Silhouetted against its murky windows, Mrs. Lovett is a dark shadow fumbling for the key in her coin purse. Unable to see her features in the gathering darkness, Sweeney thinks passersby might mistake her small figure for a young girl rather than a grown woman.

He sighs and pats Johanna's small hand. "I promise."

XxX

That night, once the picnic supplies are packed away, Johanna is downstairs trying to coerce Toby into reading Shakespeare and Anthony has wandered off to his lodgings – wherever those may be, since Sweeney never bothered to ask – Sweeney sits on a settee in the quiet parlor of the upstairs apartment with his wife. He has a book in his lap, though he has no idea what the title is and has no intention of reading it. Instead, he busies himself studying Lucy.

She sits in a straight-backed chair next to the window, mending a tear in the hem of one of her dresses. Completely absorbed in her task, she doesn't even pause in her sewing when she glances at the framed picture sitting to her right. Sweeney watches the way her expression softens just slightly and her lips twitch into the gentlest of smiles. He doesn't think Lucy is even aware that she's doing this, but she does it all the time. Before tonight, Sweeney did his best not to notice.

The picture is of Benjamin with baby Johanna in his arms – the very same picture he spotted on the day he returned. He wonders if it should feel so very much like a betrayal that Lucy is casting her fond gazes to a man in a picture instead of the one sitting in front of her. Then, he remembers his own traitorous thoughts and decides he has no right to judge which betrayal is the more egregious of the two.

Lucy glances at the frame again. Sweeney fights the urge to twitch.

"Benjamin," she says, her tone questioning, and for a moment, he wonders if she's addressing the photograph. "How did you acquire that…streak in your hair?"

Spine stiffening, Sweeney abandons all thoughts of pretending to read and stares at his wife. Lucy is finally looking at him properly – in the eye instead of at his collar or some unknown point over his shoulder. Her gaze is oddly piercing, and he almost wishes she would go back to looking everywhere else but at him.

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "I don't remember. Didn't know I had it until I was aboard Anthony's ship."

Lucy nods thoughtfully, turning bright blue eyes back to her dress hem. "You don't have any idea how it came to be?" She purses her lips for a moment, thinking. "Surely you must have some theory."

Sweeney shakes his head, averting his eyes from her contemplative expression. He has a feeling the streak of white in his hair has more to do with stress and horrors unimaginable to most men. It isn't something he wants to share with someone as innocent as Lucy.

Oblivious to his unwillingness to speak of it, Lucy continues, "Perhaps it was some kind of traumatic experience…Can you remember anything particularly traumatic happening, Benjamin?"

Botany Bay was a place for the most hardened of criminals – the bloody thirsty scoundrels who had no hope of ever being redeemed. Sweeney had seen a man eaten alive right in front of him. He'd seen a man who'd been on Botany Bay for thirty years and had lost every single one of his teeth. He'd been whipped into unconsciousness. He'd been afraid to fall asleep every night for the better part of two decades because no man would think twice about slitting his throat – or worse – as he slept. _Particularly traumatic_ does not begin to describe his fifteen-year experience.

Lucy's soft voice interrupts his thoughts before they become any more morbid. "You're thinking about it," she says. "I can tell."

He isn't sure what to say to that, so he remains silent, staring at the cover of the book he'd picked up from the table in front of him. _David Copperfield_. He frowns at the well-thumbed pages and fumbles for the right thing to say.

Sighing, Lucy tries again, her voice noticeably strained as she pleads, "Just tell me. I'm your wife, Benjamin. You can tell me anything."

More than anything, Sweeney wishes that was true. "You don't understand what you're asking of me," he says instead, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

"Of course I understand!" Lucy says, incredulous. "I know that you went through horrible things. I really do. But can't you at least try? Maybe if you talked about these things, you would feel better." She smiles encouragingly, looking hopeful. "We could start over."

In the end, it always comes down to Benjamin. No matter what Sweeney does, no matter how hard he tries, nothing will ever be enough. Not until Benjamin Barker reemerges from years of trauma utterly unscathed and ready to begin anew. He wants to give that to his wife, but he doesn't know how. He can't – and he's going to stop trying.

Eyes narrowed at the floor in consternation, he says slowly, "What would you like to talk about first? The beatings, the rapes, or the cannibalism?"

Lucy gasps and he glances up just in time to see her bring a hand to her chest. "Benjamin," she breathes. "How can you be so - "

Standing abruptly, Sweeney tosses the book onto the coffee table, ignoring the thud it makes as it slides across the surface and tumbles onto the floor.

Lucy stands too, the torn dress in her lap falling to the floor as she watches him walk away with a hand still to her chest. "Where are you going, Benjamin?"

He stops in the doorway, bracing himself against the frame. "I'm not Benjamin. All you have left of him are your pictures." He pushes open the door, and just before he slams it behind him, he says, "Spend your time with them."

XxX

When he leaves Lucy, no doubt gaping after him, Sweeney isn't sure where he's storming off to – only that it had seemed like the right course of action. Thundering down the stairs and planning on going right out the pie shop door to stalk the deserted London streets for a few hours, he surprises himself by stopping in the parlor doorway.

A light is on and Mrs. Lovett is curled up in an armchair, a book in hand but her gaze on the doorway. She had to have heard his footsteps on the stairs. Eyebrow raised, she looks at him enquiringly, waiting. It feels like a question, though she hasn't opened her mouth. For a moment, Sweeney only stares.

Ever since he decided to start avoiding Mrs. Lovett's company, he has been able to do anything but. Instead of spending time away from her in order to grow closer to Lucy, he had ended up whiling away an entire night drinking with her, and instead of ignoring her, he has been studying her like one would a strange painting, trying to find the hidden meaning within.

He has discovered that spending time with Mrs. Lovett comes just as naturally now as it did all those years ago, when he was someone else. With her, he doesn't feel the way he feels in Lucy's company – as though he is some child's unwanted, forgotten toy. With her knowing smirk and that oddly devious, sparkling light in her eyes, Mrs. Lovett makes him feel like she understands him. How she could possibly understand anything about him, he has no idea. He knows she can't even fathom what he's been through. Her empathy should make him feel angry, but it doesn't. It only soothes him, somehow managing to make him feel less alone in this world.

Mrs. Lovett had helped him when Pirelli wanted to blackmail him. Most women would have fainted or run to the nearest authorities after what he'd done to that man. Mrs. Lovett hadn't even batted an eye. She had understood – he had no other options. Not only that, she'd helped him drag the corpse through the pie shop and into the sewers. Both of them had been covered in sewage and blood by the end of the night, but instead of going to bed, Mrs. Lovett had offered him a glass of gin.

There is no doubt that Mrs. Lovett is extraordinary, if a little odd. She has always been this peculiar combination of bizarre and fascinating, but Benjamin never felt the need to be anything other than her friend. Therefore, only one question remains: Does he find her so compelling because he wants Mrs. Lovett herself, or because she gives him the female companionship he has so desperately craved with Lucy?

He has tried to be what Lucy wants, working in his shop again and letting her continue to call him by the name of a dead man. However much he tries to lie for both of them, he isn't that man anymore. No matter how much he wants to please his wife, Sweeney can't be someone he's not. Heaven knows he tried anyway, going with Lucy to that carnival, giving her the space she needed when he frightened her, but he doesn't know how to be Benjamin anymore. That way of life is as lost to him as Johanna's childhood. There is no getting it back.

To make matters worse, he can sense Lucy's disappointment whenever he is around her – almost like a physical presence between them. It's the reason he began seeking Mrs. Lovett's company. Lucy will never be happy with him; he's not the man she married and so he'll never be enough for her, whether she knows it or not, because he'll never be Barker. Sweeney will never be happy knowing his wife loves another man – a dream, nothing more than a corpse.

Lucy Barker does not love him. Sweeney Todd isn't sure whom he loves anymore.

Mrs. Lovett is still staring at him, perched in her chair, brow knitted in concern. "You alright, Mr. T?"

He could leave now. Sweeney knows he has the option of merely giving a terse response and slipping out onto the streets to wear a path in the cobblestone streets until he's too exhausted to delay returning to Lucy any longer. It would certainly be easier – like so many things in his life would have been, had he only chosen them. Dying on Botany Bay, letting disease, starvation or exhaustion take him, letting someone murder him in his sleep. That would have been easier than trying to survive. Going upstairs and apologizing to his wife, confessing everything that happened to him on that island and seeing her eyes fill with horror. It would be easier than crossing the threshold to the parlor, stepping over the proverbial line in the sand.

Sweeny Todd has never been very good with taking the easy way out.

Feeling as though something very important has shifted in the universe, Sweeney draws in a deep breath and steps into the parlor.

XxX

After their day at the park, and sitting in the pie shop listening to Toby pester Johanna like one might an older sister, Eleanor had been left feeling rather nostalgic. Retreating to the parlor, she had picked up one of Johanna's childhood favorites – a thick tome of fairy tales – and had begun to flip idly through it, remembering how she had been forced to read Cinderella so many times she knew it be heart, or how Johanna had been absolutely terrified of the story about the girl with no hands.

Eleanor is frowning over the disturbing tale of the Juniper tree, wondering why she had consented to read it to a child and why Johanna never had nightmares, when footsteps pounding on the stairs jolt her from the story. Fully expecting Mr. Todd to walk down the hall, considering Lucy has never stomped down a staircase in her life, Eleanor trains her eyes on the doorway and waits for the man to pass by.

He stops in the doorway and stares for a long time, looking pale and torturously lost. Tender affection for the man wells up in her chest, and she wants nothing more than to reach out to him, to guide him to the settee and curl up next to him. She wants to slide her fingers through his wild hair and whisper that she'll fix whatever is bothering him. Instead, she waits, never taking her eyes from him.

"You alright, Mr. T?"

After what seems like an eternity but must have been only a moment, Mr. Todd moves into the parlor. Eleanor feels herself relax, though she hadn't even realized she had been tense. Watching with dark eyes as Mr. Todd occupies the settee across from her, Eleanor shuts the book of Grimm's gruesome fairy tales and rests her trembling hands on the cover.

She wants to ask what has put the dark expression on his face, but when she opens her mouth to subtly pry, Johanna wanders into the room, yawning sleepily. "I'm off to bed," she says. "Toby is asleep at a table in the shop – I was trying to tell him about the troubling gap in social classes I read about in the paper today, but I don't think he was listening."

Eleanor snorts at Johanna's truly grieved expression, reaching out a hand to grasp the younger girl's. "I think you've got a few years before 'e'll care about anythin' or the sort, love. We can't _all_ be ten years old and absolutely passionate about social classes and capitalism – you were always a special case."

Laughing, Johanna leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek. "I'll try to be patient with him. Goodnight, Auntie Nell."

"Goodnight, my love."

Johanna pauses on her way out of the room to kiss her father's cheek and murmur a goodnight; it isn't long before they hear her soft footsteps tripping up the stairs to bed. The ensuing silence is awkward. Johanna's interruption had robbed Eleanor of her courage, and so she sits quietly and waits for Mr. Todd to explain why he's downstairs with her instead of getting ready for bed with his wife.

As the minutes tick by, Eleanor gnaws at her bottom lip and regards the wooden floor with contempt. They could be sitting here all night if she leaves it up to Mr. Todd to begin a conversation. However, to her unending surprise, just as she is about to break down and ask, Mr. Todd speaks.

"Those pictures…the ones of - "

It takes Eleanor only a moment to catch on to his meaning, and she finishes for him out of pity, "Benjamin and Johanna?"

He nods, glancing at her gratefully. "Lucy likes to look at them."

Eleanor nods, bemused. "Always did, dear. After you left, she spent months in bed, starin' at 'em. I s'ppose it gave 'er somethin' tangible to 'old onto."

Mr. Todd works his jaw angrily and grits out, "That's not me."

"No," she agrees quietly, watching him. "Not anymore."

At her acquiescence, Mr. Todd relaxes a little. The tension in his shoulders melts and he sinks back into the settee cushions, frowning. Eleanor would have smiled at the petulant picture he made if she didn't ache all over at the sight of him.

"That what's bothering you, love?" She asks. "Cause if you want, I could nick it next time I'm cleanin' up there. Put it away somewhere."

Mr. Todd's quick look of amusement is enough to send her heart careening wildly into her ribcage. Drawing in a sharp breath as he glances away again, Eleanor struggles to get a hold of herself. She has always been a practical, self-restrained woman, strong and independent. But around Mr. Todd, all of her womanly fortitude goes to hell in a hand basket.

"Wouldn't change anything," he says. "He'll still be gone…and I'll be here in his place."

"Oh, love," she breathes, and she can't control the urge to stand up and go to him. She settles next to him, leaving plenty of room between them but reaching for his hand, resting on his knee. Eleanor had moved without a thought, but now, with Mr. Todd's warm hand beneath hers, she wonders if he'll pull away. He would have every right to – and he _has_ been avoiding her, after all. "She'll come around eventually."

Mr. Todd shakes his head, staring intently at her fingers closed around his own. Eleanor considers taking her hand away, but his skin is soft and hot beneath her palm – she doesn't have the sort of discipline it would require to pull herself away from that. She settles for licking her dry lips and marveling at how natural it feels to touch him.

They sit there for a long time, listening to the fire crackle in the hearth. Eleanor is afraid to move for fear that Mr. Todd will snap out of his daze and draw his hand out from under hers.

"It wasn't caused by just one thing," he finally says, and when Eleanor gives him a befuddled look, he pulls his hand from hers and briefly touches the streak of white in his dark hair.

"Ah," she says, hastily bringing her hand back to her lap when she realizes it's resting on Mr. Todd's knee. "Is _that_ why you're down here?"

Mr. Todd doesn't seem to hear her, scowling at the floor between his knees. "I wanted to explain it to her, but…"

Eleanor watches him pause, looking frustrated. "What, love?"

"I couldn't."

"Well that's all right, dear," she says consolingly. "I'm sure Lucy would understand you're not ready to - "

"I was trying to protect her," he says, glancing at her quickly before looking away again. "I'm not afraid to talk about it."

She isn't sure she _wants_ to hear him talk about it. It's difficult to imagine the sweet, innocent Benjamin Barker among bloodthirsty crooks. It doesn't surprise her at all that he'd gone a little gray – what man wouldn't when he finally saw the world for what it really was?

"I can tell you, if you'd like," he offers, sounding hollow. "How it happened, I mean."

Eleanor can't decide if she feels flattered or offended that he isn't so concerned about protecting _her_ delicate sensibilities. She smiles ruefully and tilts her head, regarding him fondly. "What matters to me, love, is that you're back. I don't give a flyin' fig why your hair is a different color."

She could be imagining things, but just before Mr. Todd ducks his head, Eleanor could have sworn she glimpsed an odd expression on his face – almost as though something elusive has finally dawned on him. She fights back a smile, standing up and suggesting, "Gin?"

He nods and she scurries off to fetch a bottle. Toby is exactly where Johanna had said he was, slumped over a table in the pie shop, mouth open and a puddle of drool forming under his face. Eleanor tosses him an affectionate smile as she slips past him to gather a bottle and two glasses.

With a bottle of gin between them on the settee, three hours passes rather quickly. She tells Mr. Todd more stories about the amusing things Johanna did as a little girl, the rat she'd finally managed to catch with the help of Toby and a mixing bowl, and about Anthony getting tangled in the kite string that afternoon, since he'd missed it when he'd gone on his walk with Lucy. Mr. Todd listens without comment, mostly, but occasionally, he'll say something in his peculiar, dry tone and startle Eleanor into a bark of laughter.

When she finally glances at the clock, Eleanor has the nagging feeling she should go to bed before she passes out on the settee and does something mortifying, like drool on Mr. Todd's shoulder. Reluctant to leave, she sets the bottle on the table in front of them and sighs.

"I should make up Toby's bed and drag the poor lad from that table," she says with a soft laugh. Mr. Todd nods, setting aside his glass and rising to his feet. "I hope you appreciated this, Mr. T. It's four in the bleedin' morning, and Johanna is goin' to drag me out of bed at eight."

Mr. Todd only looks mildly amused, and she grumbles half-heartedly as she gathers the empty gin bottle and glasses to take into the kitchen.

"I'll be a soddin' nightmare to deal with, all my customers'll hate me, and it'll be all your fault."

Eyes lingering deliberately on her teasing expression, Mr. Todd's lips quirk into an odd little smile. "I take full responsibility," he murmurs.

Nodding in satisfaction, she delays a little longer, muttering, "Well, I guess I'll be off, then. Pleasant dreams, love."

Mr. Todd nods again, but neither of them moves. Instead, they stare at each other silently in the dim glow of the dying fire, entranced. Eleanor doesn't realize she has moved closer until she is looking directly up into Mr. Todd's face, and she inhales sharply, realizing how brash and impudent he must find her. She begins to stumble away in mortification, but Mr. Todd's hand shoots out to grip her elbow painfully, and she regards him with wide eyes.

"Mr. T?" She asks, so quietly she could have mouthed it.

He doesn't answer, staring wordlessly into her eyes with an air so intense it sends delightful shivers up her spine. She isn't sure who moves closer, but suddenly, there isn't even a minute space between their bodies. Mr. Todd is still clutching her elbow, as if afraid she'll disappear, but Eleanor isn't sure she could move if her life depended on it.

Heart pounding in her ears, and breath coming in shallow pants, she drops her gaze to Mr. Todd's parted lips and wonders with unparalleled longing what they would feel like brushing over her own. After a moment, she doesn't have to wonder because Mr. Todd releases her elbow to circle an arm around her waist, drawing her tightly into him. He leans down, capturing her lips in a hard, bruising kiss.

Eleanor is so startled that she drops the bottle and glasses in her arms, not even hearing the shatter the glass must make. Gasping into Mr. Todd's mouth, she slides her hands up his chest and fists his shirt in a tight grip. He cups her neck with the back of his other hand, opening his mouth hungrily against hers. Eleanor sighs and sinks into him, boneless in his embrace.

Ever since she met Benjamin Barker, Eleanor has wondered what it would be like to be kissed by this man. It is everything and nothing like she had imagined. It's different in the way that it is rough and passionate – desperate, like the last gasp of a dying man. At the same time, she _had_ expected the warmth that floods through her from the curls of her hair to the tips of her toes. She had expected the feeling of contentment, the way everything on earth felt exactly right the moment his lips touched hers. It's wonderful and hellish, perfect and torturous all at once – because now that Eleanor has had a taste of him, no one else will ever be enough.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ends. Pulling away abruptly, Mr. Todd releases his grip on her and staggers back, looking stunned. Eleanor feels cold and bereft at the loss of him; she wraps her arms around herself to accommodate for their separation. Breathing heavily, they stare at each other for several long seconds, speechless.

Mr. Todd is the one to break eye contact, his face unusually flushed as he rasps out, "Goodnight, Mrs. Lovett."

Overwhelmed, Eleanor has no response. In a daze, she stares after him as he makes his retreat, listening as he climbs the steps to the apartment he shares with Lucy. She listens to his footsteps overhead as he crosses the sitting room and treks down the hallway to his bedroom. Closing her eyes, she imagines Mr. Todd loosening his cravat and tossing it aside, imagines him slipping out of his shoes and unbuttoning the shirt she'd clung to so fiercely only moments before. He'll probably toss it onto the back of a chair, and Lucy will pick it up in the morning and fold it neatly. The bed creaks upstairs and Eleanor knows that Mr. Todd has just crawled into bed beside Lucy.

Exhaling slowly and feeling strangely faint, Eleanor watches the last embers burn out in the fireplace. "Goodnight," she whispers.

* * *

A/N – Title of this chapter is taken from the Ralph Waldo Emerson quote 'thou art to me a delicious torment'. Unless I manage to get a new chapter of this up within a week – which is a possibility – this might be the last chapter for a while. My classes start on the 16th, and I have a fabulous beach vacation coming up as well. So I'm going to be busy for a bit, and while I'll try to update when I can, I don't know how frequent that will be. At least expect another chapter of Passing Time soon. Thanks for the reviews, guys. You're fabulous and I love your feedback! Last, but certainly first on my list, thanks to my super amazing beta Robynne, who not only makes my writing the best it can possible be, but also happens to be an amazing friend. Love you lots, skank ho.


	12. The Greatest Motivator

_Proof of Heaven_

Since the dawn of time there have been moments when a man loses control – when the animal inside takes over and does what it wants, damn the consequences. Sweeney Todd has been around long enough to hear stories of such instances in graphic detail. While he always shuddered at these tales of powerless men – slaves to their desires – he never considered he might become one of them.

In that one instant, those few seconds when Mrs. Lovett had looked up at him – brown eyes wide and guileless, her body so close to his he could feel the heat radiating from her – Sweeney realized he wasn't exempt from those stories. No one was. Something inside him had taken over, and he had decided to take what he wanted no matter how his conscience railed against it.

Almost as if observing someone else from behind a sheet of glass, Sweeney had watched himself pull Mrs. Lovett close, bend his head and capture her mouth. When she hadn't objected, but instead gasped against his lips and clutched at him desperately, there had been no stopping him. And no going back. Even when he'd wrenched himself away from her and stumbled up the stairs to his wife, he could not forget the way Mrs. Lovett felt pressed against him. The feel of her lips against his burned into his memory like a brand – permanent and searing.

Even now, sitting in the pie shop, Sweeney finds his mind wandering. Concentrating solely on overlooking the waning evening crowd gathered around the pie shop's battered tables and studiously ignoring Mrs. Lovett's cautious glances in his direction, he curls his hands around his glass of gin and wonders how he'll look Lucy in the eye again without thinking of last night.

In the far corner of the shop, Mrs. Lovett wipes down a table, damp tendrils of copper hair curling at the nape of her neck. Sweeney catches himself looking for the fifth time in as many minutes and swiftly averts his gaze just as Johanna collapses onto the stool next to him.

Startled, he stiffens, hoping she hadn't caught him staring.

"Where is your young man?" He asks, casting her a sideways glance over his glass.

Johanna brightens at the mention of Anthony. Pushing blonde hair behind her ears, she fights back a besotted smile. "He's meeting some friends at the docks. They've all decided to drink or skip rocks or whatever it is sailors do together." She laughs. "But he said he would leave them early to wish me goodnight."

"So long as he doesn't come in drunk," Sweeney mutters into his own drink. He doesn't particularly like Anthony, but he's slowly coming to terms with the fact that the young sailor isn't going anywhere any time soon.

Johanna reaches over and covers one of his hands with her much smaller one. "Don't worry, Father. Anthony doesn't care much for drinking. He's going more for the company than anything else." Glancing over her shoulder, Johanna sees Toby scurrying to keep up with their customers and smiles. "I'm on my break and we still have an hour or so before Mother comes home. Do you mind if I have a glass of gin and ask you some terribly intrusive questions about marriage?"

One of the many things he's learned about Johanna since returning home is that Johanna's curiosity is insatiable, and when she asks a question, she expects a well-thought out answer in return. Nodding guardedly, Sweeney eyes his daughter with a small smile, wary but not wishing to deny her.

"Why the sudden interest?" He asks, grateful for the distraction.

Rounding the counter to find a clean glass and the bottle of gin, Johanna shrugs. "I've heard so many stories about you and Mother, from Auntie Nell and from Mother herself. I suppose I just want to hear your side of things – I want to hear what my parents were like together." Finding what she's looking for, Johanna gives a pleased hum and returns to her chair beside Sweeney. "Mother always puts such a fanciful spin on things, and for some reason, Auntie Nell is never quite detailed enough for my liking. I've decided you are the only one who can satisfy my curiosity."

Sweeney nods appreciatively at her as she tops up his glass and tries not to nervously fiddle with his shirt cuffs. "What do you want to know?"

"Well…" Johanna trails off and Sweeney can almost see her scanning her mental list of questions, discarding the ones she deems too invasive to start with. "What did you like to do together? For fun, I mean."

Having been expecting something far more difficult to talk about, Sweeney nearly slumps into his seat in relief. Casting his mind back over the years – another lifetime ago – he tries to recall what he and Lucy used to do when they were courting. The memories come back with relative ease – during his time away, he clung to the precious moments he spent with his wife and child, to the point of pushing every other memory aside. He didn't have room for much else in his head but them.

He remembers strolls through the park when their courtship was new, both of them glancing at each other shyly, too nervous to say anything. He remembers resting his back against the trunk of a tree and letting Lucy sketch his profile, trying valiantly not to laugh and ruin the picture. He remembers that their idea of fun after their marriage had been chess and wandering through the market. He remembers late nights where neither of them could tear themselves away from Johanna's crib – both of them desperately needed sleep, but going to bed meant missing Johanna's mouth twitch in her sleep, missing her little fist curl into her blanket, missing sleepy sighs and kicking feet.

He and Lucy hadn't done anything spectacular in their youth, but they had always taken such delight in simple things. Sweeney opens his mouth to say all this, but his tongue can't seem to wrap itself around the words. What comes out instead is a soft, "Your mother loved to play chess; she always beat me." He twitches a smile. "I could never quit staring at her long enough to concentrate on the board."

Johann grins broadly and clutches at his arm. "Oh, this is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to hear! What else? Did you always spend time together? You seemed so happy…but you must have argued! What did you disagree about?"

In the middle of downing a generous gulp of gin, Sweeney freezes as a memory comes to mind unbidden. It's fuzzy, the picture unfocused and blurred around the edges, the voices muffled and lacking distinction. He tries to hold onto it with all his might, struggling to wipe away the cobwebs.

They _had_ argued. Not often, but enough. He can barely remember it, time having worn away most of the bad memories, leaving him with only the things he truly wanted to remember. They had argued over money, like all couples. Benjamin accused Lucy of spending too much on a new bonnet. Lucy said nothing of what he spent on his razors, but Benjamin could tell she didn't approve.

And something else…Something important – just before he had been shipped off to Botany Bay.

"Children."

While Lucy had adored Johanna, she had been content with one child. She'd said Johanna was so perfect they couldn't possibly make any improvements with future children. Benjamin had wanted several – wanted them climbing all over him when he walked through the door in the evenings, wanted to hear half a dozen voices calling out for "daddy", squabbling over dollies and who had a bigger piece of pie for dessert.

Johanna is looking at him, brow furrowed. "Children?"

Startled, Sweeney realizes he had spoken aloud. "I'd always thought your mother and I wanted several children." He manages a small smile, even under the weight of his newfound revelation. "But she was quite satisfied to have just you for the rest of her life."

Time is a funny thing – making one forget all about the past's troubles and coloring everything in rosy, yet deceiving perfection. Sweeney had forgotten all about their argument until now. It has come back to him with startling clarity.

Benjamin had been so upset that Lucy hadn't wanted another child – they'd still been in the midst of arguing over the matter when he'd been taken. It had been his idea to take Johanna to the flower market, hoping that Lucy would enjoy their day out and realize how full Johanna had made their lives. Surely more children would only improve what they had?

Johanna looks saddened, but just as she tightens her grip on his arm and opens her mouth to speak, the door to the pie shop opens with the merry jingle of a bell and Anthony calls her name. Her whole face lights up at the sound of his voice, but she leans over and kisses Sweeney's cheek first.

"I'm sorry, Father," she murmurs. "We can talk more after Anthony leaves for the night, can't we?"

He nods.

Sweeney watches Johanna skip off to Anthony, both of them illuminated in the light from the doorway, neither of them paying the least bit of the attention to the evening crowd eating and drinking around them. Anthony delivers a mock bow and kisses her hand, and Johanna blushes prettily as he leads her out to an empty table in the garden.

Absorbed in watching them, Sweeney doesn't even notice Mrs. Lovett rounding the counter until she's standing right in front of him. He stiffens at her proximity and she raises an eyebrow at his white-knuckled grip on his glass.

"Sorry, Mr. Todd," she says, avoiding his gaze just as devoutly as he avoids hers. "Didn't mean to startle you – just need this." She reaches under the counter and grabs a large pitcher.

Sweeney can only frown into his glass. _Mr. Todd_? He can't remember the last time she hadn't addressed him as 'Mr. T', 'love', or on one memorable occasion, 'bloomin' insufferable man'.

Straightening, pitcher in hand, Mrs. Lovett glances at him just as he risks a fleeting look in her direction. Their eyes catch and for a moment, neither of them breathes. If his memories of last night had been vivid before, they're explicit now, with Mrs. Lovett's dark eyes boring into his. Lips parted in a gasp, she stares at him with unadulterated longing and Sweeney is helpless to do anything but gaze back. He tightens his grip on his glass, if only to keep his hands off of her.

Without looking away from him, Mrs. Lovett puts the pitcher on the counter and begins, "Mr. Todd, I - "

The bell above the door chimes once again, and Mrs. Lovett instantly turns her eyes to the door to see who has arrived so late in the evening. Her gaze hardens and her mouth sets into a thin line at whoever she sees, so Sweeney forces his eyes away from her and turns to look.

In the doorway, looking down his nose at Mrs. Lovett's customers and perhaps the establishment itself, Judge Turpin is the picture of upper class disdain. His eyes scan the crowd searchingly and Sweeney feels a wave of rage come over him – he knows exactly who Turpin is looking for.

He grits his teeth against a growl, clenching his fists at his sides. Calling attention to himself will help nothing – the last thing he needs is for Turpin to recognize his face.

"Can I 'elp you, _sir_?" Mrs. Lovett calls to him, her voice devoid of the warmth it held just moments ago. She raises an eyebrow at him, expression hard and unwelcoming.

Sweeney almost smiles. Every time Turpin ventures into the pie shop, Mrs. Lovett treats him as rudely as possible while still maintaining a professional air of politeness. She treats it like an art form.

Turpin regards Mrs. Lovett like he would a speck on his polished leather shoes. "A drink, if you please." He sweeps further into the shop with reluctance in his eyes, sitting three stools away from Sweeney.

Mrs. Lovett busies herself with preparing Turpin's ale, and Sweeney can't help but notice that she picks up a used glass from a pile of dirty dishes to pour his drink into. If Turpin wasn't looking, she'd probably spit in it too. He hides his amusement in another gulp of gin.

"Where is your little helper this evening?" Turpin asks, his eyes still scanning the crowd even as Mrs. Lovett sets his drink in front of him with more force than necessary.

Sweeney doesn't let his gaze drift to the outside garden, where Johanna sits with Anthony. Her break will be over soon, and she'll come back inside. Considering Johanna's reaction the last time Turpin showed up at the pie shop, Sweeney sincerely hopes the lecherous rat is gone by then. He won't be held responsible for his actions if Turpin so much as winks at his daughter.

"My service not good enough for 'is judgeness?"

"Your service is as lacking as ever, Mrs. Lovett," Turpin replies, gazing suspiciously into his smudged glass.

Mrs. Lovett tosses her curls and offers a charming smile. "So glad to 'ear it, _sir_."

Sweeney hadn't known the word 'sir' could sound so much like 'pompous git' until Mrs. Lovett uttered it.

Turpin takes a tentative sip of his ale and grimaces before putting it back down. He spends several moments watching Mrs. Lovett scrub at the countertop with unparalleled vigor. Johanna will be walking through the door again any moment. Sweeney taps his fingers restlessly against his glass and mentally urges Turpin out the door before he breaks and does something irrational and marvelously violent to get rid of him. It would be so easy to lure him upstairs for a shave, to lull him into relaxing against the barber's chair with false pleasantries and the promise of the best shave he's ever had. It would be so easy for Sweeney to sink his razor into the flesh of Turpin's neck and feel warm blood on his hands…

Finally, just as Sweeney is about to snap, Turpin casts one last glance around before pushing aside his glass. He tosses a couple of coins onto the counter carelessly. "Give Mrs. Barker and her daughter my best," he says, moving toward the door.

"Leavin' so soon?" Mrs. Lovett asks, her cheerful grin somehow managing to convey malice.

"I am, as always, _delighted_ to depart from your company, Mrs. -" Turpin stops suddenly, his gaze falling on the outside patio. Through the window, Johanna and Anthony are visible, heads close together at a table. Johanna shoves at Anthony's shoulder playfully, her grin wide and unabashed.

Eyes narrowed, Turpin watches them, unmoving in the middle of the shop. Mrs. Lovett's nervous gaze darts to Sweeney as she wrings her hands, practically bouncing up and down in her anxiety. Sweeney gives a small shake of his head and she bites her lip.

In a far corner of the shop, some overzealous customer drops his tumbler, and the following shatter of glass and shout of, "Oi, watch it!" from Mrs. Lovett is enough to jar Turpin from his stupor. He blinks twice, rapidly, before turning resolutely from the scene of Anthony and Johanna. Something in his expression is unsettlingly familiar. It makes Sweeney's stomach turn over. Then, just as quickly as he'd come, Judge Turpin breezes out of the pie shop, his coat billowing behind him in the winter air as he stalks down the street.

"Good riddance," Mrs. Lovett mutters. "Bugger didn't even leave a tip."

XxX

After a visit from Anthony, Johanna usually floats around with the silliest grin Eleanor has ever seen. Not even Eleanor's taunts about lovesickness are enough to remove it – which is exactly why the baker finds it so odd when Johanna walks slowly through the door after Anthony bids her goodnight, face ashen.

Eleanor watches from one of her customer's tables as the girl ties her apron around her waist again and gets back to work, helping Toby usher out customers and clean up the messes they've left behind. Though she chats with Toby and departing customers as usual, Eleanor's shrewd and searching gaze detects the faint tremor in her hands and the lack of usual good humor in Johanna's eyes.

Frowning to herself, Eleanor bids her regulars goodbye and begins picking up the dirty dishes left on the table. She supposes Johanna is having troubles of her own in love. After all, her first tiff with Anthony had to come about eventually. At least Johanna can be secure in the knowledge that Anthony bloody well adores her. Eleanor's only reassurance is one passionate kiss in the wee hours of the morning that neither of them has acknowledged since. If it wasn't for the fact that Mr. Todd refuses to look her in the eye, she would have thought her love-starved brain had merely conjured up the kiss in a dream the night before.

As it is, one kiss in the dead of night is hardly reassuring. People do all sorts of things in the dark that they regret in the unforgiving light of day. Mr. Todd probably isn't meeting her eyes because he's so ashamed of himself – he _had_ betrayed Lucy, after all. His precious wife, the one he would do anything for. Considering his devotion, Eleanor is surprised Mr. Todd isn't trying to throw himself in front of a bloody carriage out of guilt.

If it wasn't for Turpin and his ill-timed entrance, she might have been able to get Mr. Todd to talk to her again. She's certain he'll never want a repeat of what happened last night, but she doesn't think she could get through her days knowing he wants nothing to do with her ever again. She wants to at least hold onto her gin nights with him. She looks forward to those nights – when it's just them, sitting across from each other, nursing a glass. Sometimes they talk, and sometimes the silence between them is so easy and comfortable that Eleanor has fallen asleep at the table, Mr. Todd's dark eyes on her. It isn't much, but she'll take what she can get.

It isn't until Eleanor has locked the door to the pie shop and flipped the sign to closed that Johanna utters a word to her. Setting a pile of precariously stacked dishes on the counter, she wipes her hands on her apron and turns to Eleanor. Her voice is so quiet and so small that for a moment, Eleanor doesn't recognize it.

"I thought we were going to do something about him."

Eleanor takes one look at Johanna's pale, distressed face and knows.

"You saw 'im, then?" She breathes out slowly, brushing curls from her eyes. "I was 'opin' Anthony would distract you long enough for 'im to go away."

Johanna shakes her head. "I don't want Anthony to know, so I managed not to react but I'm scared, Auntie Nell." She looks away, her eyes filling up. "He follows me everywhere! I don't know what to do."

Unable to handle the distance between them anymore when Johanna looks so small and lost, Eleanor closes the space between them in several short steps and gathers Johanna into her arms. "Oh, my love. I'm so sorry." She runs a hand through Johanna's silky hair.

"You said I should leave it to you…" Johanna sniffles into her shoulder. "Have you thought of something?"

"I 'ave." Eleanor swallows heavily. "But you're not goin' to like it."

XxX

Settled comfortably into an armchair in the parlor, Johanna looks between Eleanor and Mr. Todd with something akin to horror. "You can't possibly be serious."

Eleanor can barely believe it and she's the one suggesting it. This independent young lady sitting in front of her was once the darling girl who curled up on her lap and begged for a story, sweet face young and so innocent. It feels wrong – Eleanor doesn't want to be the one to taint her, to put out that light in her eyes.

But if she doesn't, then Turpin will.

Gathering herself, Eleanor forges ahead. "We 'ave to get rid of 'im, love. I know it seems harsh - "

Johanna's laugh is high and a little hysterical. "_Harsh_? Auntie Nell, you're talking about - " She stops, lowering her voice to a hiss. "You're talking about _murder_!"

"I'm perfectly aware of what I'm talkin' about, Johanna," Eleanor frowns. "But it's necessary."

Johanna shakes her head firmly, looking at her father with wide, pleading eyes. "Murder is never necessary. There must be another way."

"If there was, we wouldn't be having this discussion." On the surface, Mr. Todd's voice is frustration-filled and perhaps a little anguished that his daughter must do something so terrible, but underneath, Eleanor can detect the faintest trace of excitement. It's so small and so hidden that she's sure Mr. Todd doesn't even know it's there. She can hardly blame him – it's not every day a man gets the opportunity to exact revenge against the snake who ruined his life.

"But I can't!" Johanna looks on the verge of tears. With her eyes wet, her wringing hands on her lap and her brows drawn together, she looks close to throwing a tantrum. If she was still four, Eleanor might offer her a cookie in exchange for her silence. "You can't think I could possibly - "

"It's the only way he'll ever leave you alone!" Eleanor interrupts, hating the way Johanna flinches from her apologetic gaze. Her heart lurches in her chest at the crushed look on Johanna's face – like she's finding out for the first time that the world isn't story-book perfect. Too ashamed to meet her gaze, Eleanor glances away to stare at the carpet. "Do you really think that Turpin will just lose interest and walk away? We got lucky last time, love. It won't 'appen again."

Johanna merely stares at them, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Eleanor glances at Mr. Todd. He's staring a hole in the floor, his expression pinched. She can tell from the look in his eyes that he's a million miles away – probably thinking of what happened the last time he ignored Judge Turpin. She can't imagine what it must be like, going through this again with his daughter. Will he ever manage to remove his family from Turpin's grasping fingers?

Mr. Todd looks up, eyes still clouded as he looks at Johanna. "You won't have to…" He trails off, swallowing. "I'll take care of him. I just need to know -"

Johanna looks at him in disbelief. "Are you asking for my consent?"

Eleanor shrugs. "Might need you to help at some point, but we certainly wouldn't 'ave you do the actual killin'. Don't be silly, love."

"Yes, I'm the one being ridiculous right now!" Johanna chokes on a panic-stricken laugh.

"I know this is hard to accept, dear," Eleanor says softly. "But if we don't deal with this now, the blighter'll plant a necklace in Anthony's pocket and accuse 'im of stealing. Send 'im off to Botany Bay right quick, just like 'e did your father."

Johanna's face drains of all color, her fists clenched in the delicate fabric of her skirts. "Not Anthony."

Eleanor nods. "It will be, my love. Unless 'o course…we do somethin' about it."

Silence reigns while Johanna stares into the crackling fire, contemplative. Eleanor can hear Toby wandering around in the kitchen, probably trying to find her newest hiding spot for the gin. She almost smiles when she hears the clatter of pans and a young voice curse in surprise. The lad is growing on her.

At the sound of the bell above the door jingling in the pie shop, Eleanor almost calls out to the boy. He shouldn't be wandering off after the sun goes down and he's probably just going to steal alcohol. Irrational though it may be, she can't break the silence. Johanna is in such a fragile place – the slightest noise could tip her over the edge. So she lets Toby go and decides that they'll have a talk about curfews and theft tomorrow.

"Are - " Johanna stops when her voice comes out shaky. Clearing her throat, she begins again, stronger this time. "Are you telling me that if I don't…do this, then Judge Turpin will send Anthony away?"

"I don't mean to scare you, love," Eleanor says softly, and even as she says the words, she knows it's a lie. Scaring Johanna into cooperating might be the only way. Swallowing back the guilt, she comforts herself with the fact that while she may be scaring Johanna, her warnings are nothing but true. Turpin isn't a man to be trifled with. "But Anthony is standin' in the way of what 'e wants. Men like Turpin always get what they want in the end." She glances at Mr. Todd, relieved to see that he looks very much in the present for the moment, his eyes sharp and clear.

"Judge Turpin ruined my life and your mother's," he says, his voice nothing but a rasp. "Don't let him ruin yours, Johanna."

"I don't think that's quite accurate, Benjamin."

Just managing to rein in her look of wide-eyed horror, Eleanor jerks her head up to see Lucy standing in the doorway, her mouth a thin line of displeasure.

From the kitchen, another set of crashes and curses emanates. Eleanor bites down on her own string of obscenities. The sound of the bell hadn't been Toby leaving – it had been Lucy arriving.

Mr. Todd stares at his wife uncomfortably, his expression stranded somewhere between fading devotion and guilt. "You're early."

Lucy shakes her head, blue eyes bright with something indefinable. Possibly disappointment. In any case, it suits her – Eleanor doesn't know what Lucy would be without that permanent air of dissatisfaction and civility. "I'm on time. And you're telling our daughter stories."

Staring at Lucy, cast in shadows and firelight, Eleanor is reminded quite cruelly of why Mr. Todd would never look at a tired piemaker with anything remotely close to desire. Her blue dress faded and a little worse for wear but miraculously free of dirt and grime from her trek through the streets, Lucy somehow manages to look like a princess, stooping to visit the commoners. Eleanor has never had that sort of presence.

Mr. Todd flinches at Lucy's words as though she'd slapped him. He doesn't get a chance to reply before Lucy gives them all one last lingering look of disapproval and turns on her heel, continuing down the hall. In seconds, they hear her soft footsteps on the stairs. Mr. Todd swallows, standing stiffly. He shoots Eleanor a look on his way out. Johanna still needs persuading, whether he's in the room or not.

Inwardly rolling her eyes at Lucy's dramatics and the way Mr. Todd follows after her like a trained canary whenever she so much as gets a paper cut, Eleanor only gives the barber a terse nod in return.

When she hears Mr. Todd's boots on the stairs, Eleanor turns to look at Johanna, ignoring her puzzled expression. The last thing she wants is to get into another discussion about the ever-continuing saga of the barber and his wife. "Well?"

Immediately, Johanna's eyes harden, losing that curious light Eleanor loves so much. Refusing to look at her, Johanna stares at her shoes instead. "Do you understand what you're asking of me?"

Unrepentant on the outside no matter how much the inside of her weeps at the loss of Johanna's last bit of childlike innocence, Eleanor says, "Yes, love. And I'm sorry, but it's 'im or Anthony."

Johanna's face crumples. Hiding behind her hands, she cries, "I just…can't."

Tears in her eyes, Eleanor crosses the room and kneels in front of the girl. Wrapping her arms around her thin frame, she whispers, "One day, love, you might not 'ave a choice."

One day, Johanna will be faced with the decision to kill a horrid man who does terrible things or lose the man she loves. When that time comes, she won't have to choose. The answer will be obvious.

Love is the greatest motivator.

XxX

Sweeney finds Lucy in their bedroom, standing in front of her vanity and removing her gloves, laying them carefully next to her bonnet. She doesn't look up when the floorboards creak beneath him, and he hesitates in the doorway.

Sighing quietly, Lucy brings her head up and turns to face him. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Johanna stories about Judge Turpin. I know you believe he sent you away for some nefarious purpose, but I don't want her believing the worst in people."

It takes Sweeney a moment to respond with something other than rage or indignation to Lucy's words, and he fumbles to say the right thing. He's tired of arguing with her. "She deserves to know the truth."

"What truth?" Lucy asks, shaking her head. "There is no evidence to support such claims."

Sweeney stares at her, jaw tight and shoulders tense. He clenches his hands into fists to hold himself back – from what, he doesn't know. He only feels the need to let Lucy know how incredibly livid her words have made him. If he loses control for just a moment, he knows he would do something he'd regret. So he keeps his fists balled tight, breathes through his nose, and says nothing.

Lucy turns back to her gloves, nervously smoothing her hands over them. The framed photographs of Benjamin and Johanna sit next to them. Lucy stares at their smiling faces and reaches out to lovingly caress the frame with slim fingers before turning to him, mouth set determinedly.

"No matter what you may think about Judge Turpin, I wish you would let it go and focus on what's happening now," she says, blue eyes searching his face. "It was a long time ago. If you would just stop living in the past and really come home to us - "

"_I'm_ living in the past?" He asks, his voice cold. "I'm not the one who spends hours each night staring at pictures taken fifteen years ago."

Lucy breath catches. "How dare you, Benjamin. I - "

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't call me Benjamin." Gaze hardened, Sweeney stares at his wife and feels none of the glowing affection he'd felt a lifetime ago. It's gone – so faded and tattered that he barely remembers what it felt like to love her so much. "That man is dead."

"He isn't!" Lucy says so fiercely that it startles him. Her bright eyes are widened in vehemence and her cheeks are flushed. "I don't care how long it's been or what you went through, it doesn't change who you are."

"It changes _everything_!"

"No! You're still you. Your name is Benjamin Barker and I refuse to call you anything else!" She stops when her voice catches, turning from him to put her hands to her face, crying softly.

Even if he doesn't love her the way he used to, Sweeney still hates to see Lucy so distraught. He wants to cross the room, to hold her and make everything better. Benjamin was so good at comforting his wife – a gentle hand, soft words, sweet kisses. Sweeney no longer has kind words to whisper in her ear and his touch isn't as tender as it used to be – he can only offer a few grasping kisses and fumbling sentiments. If he tried to go to her now, Lucy would pull away and he would only become angry again. There's nothing he can do for her now, so Sweeney flexes his fingers at his sides and he doesn't move.

Sniffling, Lucy presses her palm against the glass pane of their window. The sky is darkening, gas lamps lighting the way for those still walking the streets. "Why can't you be who you used to be? We could be happy, you know – if you would just stop this nonsense and be the man I fell in love with."

Nonsense? Being torn from his family, forced onto a ship heading to Australia and being beaten and spat upon in a penal colony for fifteen years is nonsense? He recalls the nights he spent lying awake, too afraid to fall asleep. He would spend the hours until dawn thinking of Lucy's warm smile, trying to preserve his image of her and keep is as crystal clear as the day he was taken. He thought of Johanna's laughter – the gurgle of a happy infant. He thought of running his fingers through Lucy's yellow hair as they lay close to each other at night. The agony he had gone through thinking he might never see his girls again, the things he endured just to get back to them; under the searing, merciless sun, beneath the crack of a whip and the loss of his innocence…He never gave up. His family was the only reason he kept going, the reason he tried to survive, the reason he hardened his heart and forgot how to be Benjamin Barker.

And it was all nonsense?

Sweeney spends several moments watching Lucy at the window as she attempts to calm herself. Her forehead pressed against the glass, her eyes closed and shoulders still hitching with suppressed sobs, she looks heartbroken. In that instant, more than anything else, Sweeney wishes he could be what she needs. He wishes he could have come back the man she loved. And just like that, his earlier anger vanishes like a smoke in the breeze. Lucy's distress always had that effect on him.

"He's gone, Lucy," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "I can't be him anymore."

Lucy whirls around with a sudden fire in her eyes and her cheeks tear-streaked. "You can - I can help you! We could try again…who's to say we couldn't have what we once had again?" She makes a sweeping motion with her arm, gesturing nervously as she speaks, but the sound of breaking glass fills the air. Lucy falls silent and they both turn their heads to stare at the mess on the floor. She had knocked the picture off the vanity.

Lucy stares in heartsick fascination at the broken pieces scattered across their floor. Mouth open in a silent gasp, she reaches out a shaking hand, as if she can somehow put the pieces back together by sheer will alone. In the splintered frame, Benjamin and Johanna smile up at them – a grotesque caricature of the happiness of their past.

Eyes red and blonde hair beginning to straggle from its elaborate twist, Lucy pins him with a look so resentful that Sweeney almost apologizes. For what, he isn't sure. For not being someone else. For not being close enough to catch the frame when it fell. They stare at one another, each coming to terms with what the other has become and wondering how they can be with someone who reminds them so painfully of what they lost.

Finally, Lucy turns from him and kneels on the floor, struggling to keep the tears at bay. Hands trembling, she reaches out and begins to carefully pick up the shards of glass, gathering them into her skirt and sniffling.

Sweeney watches her for a quiet moment, no sound in the room but Lucy's hitched breathing and the clink of glass. He wonders if she's aware that she just made her choice without a second thought. Lucy has chosen Benjamin over him. Instead of continuing their conversation and trying to convince Sweeney that what they had isn't dead, she chose to hold on to something beyond repair.

In that moment, Sweeney makes his own choice. Casting one last glance at his wife and saying a silent goodbye to what they used to be, he strides from the room and leaves Lucy alone to pick up the shattered remnants of their life together.

* * *

A/N - This chapter would not have been possible without Robynne, my darling beta, who literally emailed me with the words, "I want to see 250 words from you in my inbox by tonight OR ELSE." And of course, I jumped to obey – she's scary when she's bossy. Thanks so much for your reviews! I know I slacked on replies this time around, but I figured you would all rather I spent time on writing up a new chapter, rather than reply to old reviews. Right? Haha Enjoy and let me know what you think!


	13. What We Truly Want

_Proof of Heaven_

Eight days after Eleanor and Johanna's darling little chat about Turpin, the cozy little parlor on Fleet Street is rife with tension. It's nothing outright, of course – Eleanor is curled up in her favorite armchair with a pair of socks she's been half-heartedly knitting for months, and Johanna sits on the settee with her nose buried in a dusty volume of Shakespeare but the silence between them is evidence enough. And it's been lasting for more than a bloody week.

Ever since that evening a little over a week ago, things have been…odd around the pie shop. Johanna spends most of her time working at the Foster's mansion or wandering about town with Anthony but has gone out of her way to avoid Eleanor even when she is at home. Whenever Eleanor asks her a question or tries to engage her in a discussion, Johanna gives one-word answers that make it impossible to carry on a conversation or sometimes just gets up and leaves the room in a huff. She reminds Eleanor of her father in that way – both of them are complete children when they're angry. Either way, she's never in the same room with Eleanor for more than a minute. So, when Eleanor had come into the parlor and found her sitting with a book, she hadn't been able to resist the opportunity. She has missed the girl this past week and she does not like this new attitude one bit.

Now, Eleanor has trapped Johanna in this room with her for the foreseeable future. Johanna is far too stubborn to leave the room since she arrived first. She sits stiffly on the settee with her book and maintains her frosty silence, ignoring Eleanor's secretive peeks in her direction, and looking so much like Lucy Barker that Eleanor almost wants to sit up straight and stop slouching for fear of reprimand.

Come to think of it, the bloody queen of Frosty Silences herself has also stopped speaking to both Eleanor and Mr. Todd. She barely acknowledges Johanna, except to kiss her hello or chide her for not combing her hair. Whatever Lucy and Mr. Todd had argued about, neither of them appear willing to speak of it and so Eleanor is left in the dark with only her pet theories. Her personal favorite is that Mr. Todd obtained a liking for cross-dressing while away and having caught him in one of her gowns, Lucy is upset that he looks better in it than she does.

Hardly likely, but picturing Mr. Todd in Lucy's dainty pink bonnet is enough to send Eleanor into fits of giggles.

They never speak of the kiss they shared in the pie shop – it seems like an eternity ago but Eleanor remembers it in vivid detail. Being so close to the man and forbidden from reaching out and touching him is the sweetest torture, but Eleanor would gladly endure it for the rest of her life. There was a time when she didn't think she'd ever lay eyes on that man again, and she hoards every precious second like a miser.

Fiddling absently with her knitting needles, Eleanor chances another look in Johanna's direction, peeking through her red curls. Across the room, Johanna sighs heavily – most unladylike – and looks up from her book, exasperation written all over her face. She narrows her eyes.

"Did your mother never teach you that it's rude to stare?"

Eleanor beams. This is practically the first sentence Johanna has voluntarily uttered in her direction for days. "Nope, never."

For a moment, Johanna only stares while Eleanor continues to grin at her. Finally, she shakes her head and says, "You are mad as a hatter."

"You know," Eleanor says contemplatively, snatching up any scrap of conversation Johanna is willing to throw at her. "I've never understood that expression. Why is a 'atter mad? A man may very well be mad but I don't think 'is choice of 'eadwear 'as anythin' to do with it."

"It's just an expression," Johanna says, frowning. "Don't you remember Alice in Wonderland?"

"Of course I do. But why did he 'ave to be a hatter? That just gives the poor blokes a bad reputation. 'fore you know it, everyone's going to think all 'atters are mad and where's that leave us, hmm?"

Johanna frowns. "That's completely ridiculous, you can't -" She stops, scowling at Eleanor, realizes that she's being tricked into talking. After all, arguing with Johanna is better than total silence. With a pointed sighs, Johanna turns back to her book without another word.

Still smiling, Eleanor goes back to her knitting, satisfied for the time being.

For a few moments, they continue in uninterrupted, but slightly friendlier silence until Johanna frowns at her book and murmurs to herself, "Why don't I remember this?"

Curious, Eleanor glances at the book title and then winces. Perhaps she should have mentioned something before now – but Johanna had been so small and Shakespeare was so difficult…

XxX

_It was nearing midnight in the pie shop and Eleanor Lovett, exhausted from a day's work, was lying bonelessly on the settee in her parlor, the stays of her corset undone to allow her a little more breathing room and her red curls falling into her eyes. Too tired to push them off her forehead, she leaves them where they are, even though they tickle her eyelashes._

_Eyes shut, lost somewhere between waking and sleeping, Eleanor doesn't hear the polite cough at first. The second cough, a little louder, brings her jolting into the present. She jumps, nearly falling off the settee. Hand to her chest to calm her thundering heart, Eleanor forces her tired eyes to focus. _

_In the doorway, in a prim white nightgown with her blonde hair curling around her shoulders, four year old Johanna stands in the doorway, clasping a book to her chest that likely weighs more than she does. She blinks at Eleanor with wide brown eyes. _

_Heaving a sigh and collapsing against the back of the sofa, Eleanor rubs at her eyes. "What are you doin' up at this hour, lit'le miss? S'past your bedtime!"_

_Johanna shifts on small feet, nearly dropping the heavy book. "Mummy wouldn't read to me," she says, as if that explains everything._

_Eleanor frowns – Lucy has been in one of her moods again, lying in bed all day and refusing to even take tea, much less spend time with her child. The piemaker had forced the woman out of bed to at least tuck Johanna in – Eleanor has been looking after her all day and it isn't easy serving her customers with a small child underfoot. If Lucy had done as ordered, Johanna should have been in bed hours ago. _

"_Didn't mummy tuck you in?" Eleanor asks._

_Johanna nods. _

"_Then why aren't you sleepin'?"_

_Johanna sniffs and says patiently, "Can't sleep without a bedtime story."_

_Her tone suggests infinite patience, as though explaining such a thing to an adult is a waste of her time, but Johanna is willing to try. Eleanor bites her lip to keep from smiling. _

"_And you want mad ol' Mrs. Lovett to read to you instead, is that it?"_

_Johanna nods again, and when Eleanor pats tiredly at her lap, the child scurries forward and climbs into her arms. Eleanor holds Johanna close and kisses the top of her head, unable to help herself. Johanna is the sweetest child she's ever had the fortune of knowing, and with Lucy unwilling to look after her, Eleanor has spent the day pretending to herself that she has a child of her own. That Johanna is hers. It's silly, but it's all she has._

_Taking the book from Johanna's small hands, she says, "Alright, what 'ave we 'ere, eh?" The cover reads 'The Complete Works of William Shakespeare' and Eleanor balks. "Uh, lovey, wouldn't you rather read about Three Blind Mice or Sleepin' Beauty, hmm?"_

"_No," Johanna frowns. "Those are silly."_

_Flipping to the sonnets, Eleanor says, "Nothin' wrong with bein' silly every now and then. Now, let's see…" She skims through the sonnets and finds something that looks fairly simple. "My mistress eyes look nothin' like the sun -" She breaks off with a frown. "Well that's not very romantic."_

_Johanna shifts impatiently on her lap. "I want to hear about Juliet!"_

_Eleanor flips to Romeo and Juliet, and groans. This is not her type of literature. The story of Romeo and Juliet is not unfamiliar to her, however, so she puts on her best reading voice and pretends to follow along with the words. _

_Ten minutes later, Eleanor is still pretending to read while secretly making it up as she goes along – little Johanna has yet to notice. "And then 'e said, 'Juliet, I think you're right pretty' and she said, "My, aren't you a 'andsome lad. Wot say we elope and run away from our 'orrible families?'"_

_Just as she is about to turn the page, Johanna's blonde head drops against her shoulder and Eleanor looks down to see the child breathing deeply in slumber. Smiling to herself, Eleanor closes the book and gathers Johanna into her arms to carry upstairs. Lucy Barker isn't the only one who can tell bedtime stories._

XxX

Now, thirteen years later, Eleanor has years of bedtime story-telling behind her. Her yarn-spinning skills improved over time, thankfully, and eventually, she read to Johanna every night instead of Lucy. Even when Johanna got old enough to read for herself, she still had Eleanor read Shakespeare to her because she said Eleanor made it more interesting.

Since Johanna is trying to convey that she isn't speaking to her without actually speaking to her, she has chosen to read William Shakespeare all on her own, and Eleanor cringes to think what Johanna is discovering for herself. Eleanor had been rather too lazy to follow along with the lines, even when she advanced to the point where she could understand most of what was happening without much problem.

Johanna looks up from her book with a puzzled frown and Eleanor looks away quickly. "Auntie Nell…" she begins, and despite knowing what's coming, Eleanor's heart thrills to hear the name again. "Didn't you read Twelfth Night to me when I was younger?"

Eleanor nods cautiously. "Course, love - all the time. It was your favorite; read it so many times I used to recite it in my sleep."

"Well, why don't I remember this bit?" Johanna clears her throat and begins to read. "This is the air; that is the glorious sun; this pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't; and though tis wonder - "

Eleanor sticks out her tongue, remembering the passage. "Oh, that – I shortened it. Sebastian was a tad winded, love."

Johanna looks outraged. "You shortened Shakespeare? You can't do that, Auntie Nell."

"You didn't seem to mind."

"Well of course I didn't, I was a child and I had no idea you were skipping anything!" She looks down at the book, frustrated.

"Oh love, I 'ad to or I'd go mad!" Eleanor blows out a huff of breath and begins reciting another passage from memory, "Look wot an unthrift in th' world doth spend, shifts but 'is place, for still the world enjoys it; but beauty's waste 'ath in th' world an end...Wot the bleedin' 'ell does that _mean_?"

Johanna gapes.

She shakes her head. "And 'Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo.' Why don't she just say, 'Romeo, where'd you run off to?'"

"Because it sounds more romantic the other way."

"Romance." Eleanor scoffs. "Closest thing I ever been to romance in real life is a man payin' for my drinks!" She snorts. "And what about 'To be or not to be, that is the question!' Make up your bloody mind!"

Johanna looks so offended that Eleanor thinks she might pop a vessel. "It's poetry!"

"'S'a bloody mouthful! So I decided you were too young to understand anyway, and I made 'em up the best I could." She smiles brightly at Johanna, as though expecting praise for her brilliant interpretation of classic literature.

Johanna is not impressed. "Marvelous. Now I'll have to read the plays all over again. Who knows what else you skipped. Did you make other things up as well? Perhaps Hamlet and Ophelia don't actually put aside their differences and move to the seaside."

Nellie bites her lip, looking away guiltily. Johanna's mouth falls open in shock.

"Auntie Nell!"

Nellie crosses her arms over her chest and grumbles, "My endin's better than ol' Billy Shakespeare's, anyway."

XxX

Silence in the little pie shop on Fleet Street would usually be a welcome relief to Sweeney Todd's ears, but in the last week, the quiet has been less of a blessing and more of a point of tension. It feels as though everyone in the house has been stretched to their breaking point, and it's only a matter of time before someone or something snaps.

Sweeney has a feeling that it's going to be him.

The barbershop is closed for the day, but Sweeney sits in his shop anyway, perched on his barber's chair and flicking his razor open and closed mindlessly rather than facing the melodrama downstairs.

There are many things to be thinking of. Judge Turpin needs to be taken care of before he harms Johanna or frames Anthony the way he framed Benjamin. He needs to pay for what he did to Sweeney's family, and Sweeney will be only too happy to exact his revenge.

Johanna is smitten with Anthony and Sweeney would not be surprised if she marries the boy before the year is out. He has just gotten his daughter back and it won't be long before he loses her again.

His marriage is utterly shattered beyond repair, and both he and Lucy have been avoiding each other. Sweeney has even taken to sleeping in his shop rather than lying in bed beside someone who can barely tolerate his presence. He doesn't particularly want to be around Lucy either. It hurts too much to be near her.

They could have been so happy together. Perhaps they still could be, if either of them were willing to change. They have both grown and altered so much in fifteen years, but they have done so separately and it isn't easy to come together again. They are two different people trying to be who they once were, and Sweeney won't let them tear each other apart anymore for the sake of ghosts of the past.

There are many things to think about, but Sweeney finds his mind constantly spinning back to Mrs. Lovett. It's getting harder to stay away from her, especially when he can barely look at Lucy, and the baker is always so near. Her hand touches his when they reach for the same thing at the dinner table, her skirts brush his ankle when she passes him in the hall, her scent lingers when she leaves a room. Sweeney's eyes follow her every move without his consent, and his resolve is crumbling spectacularly.

In all honesty, the only thing besides Lucy that is still keeping him from Mrs. Lovett is his own uncertainty. He's finding it difficult to discern whether his attraction to Mrs. Lovett is real and has everything to do with the woman herself and how she makes him feel – like he's burning from the inside – or if he's clinging to the idea of her because she represents everything he had wanted from his wife before things went sour.

Flicking his razor open against his thigh once more, Sweeney frowns at the dusty floor. He won't hurt the people he loves because he's confused and unsure of what he wants. If he doesn't make a decision soon, he's sure he'll go mad.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Sweeney looks up, his breath catching in his throat when he sees Mrs. Lovett through the window. He stiffens in his chair, immediately on the defense. When the redhead is around, he can't afford to be careless. Caution is the only way to survive.

She waves through the glass, a little flicking of her fingers, with an impish smile and Sweeney feels his stomach turn over. He grits his teeth and tightens his grip around his razor. Mrs. Lovett pokes her head through the door and says, "Mr. T, 'ave you seen Johanna? I could 'ave sworn I saw 'er not five minutes ago but the lit'le imp 'as disappeared on me."

Staring at her, mouth dry, Sweeney cannot immediately form a response. The woman looks no different than she usually does – red curls tousled carelessly, a spot of flour on her cheek, dress dark and showing rather too much of her pale skin – but today is different. For whatever reason, she looks rather more tempting than usual.

He swallows. "Anthony came to fetch her." Sweeney wants to do his fatherly duty and think the worst of the boy, but he knows the two of them are probably doing nothing more than cloud-watching or feeding birds. It's difficult to hate a suitor so bloody guileless.

Mrs. Lovett puts a hand on her hip and smiles. "Glad he's gettin' 'er out of the house, at least. That girl spends too much time with 'er nose buried in a book, if you ask me."

She runs a careless hand over the bodice of her dress and suddenly, Sweeney is near breaking point. He stands so suddenly that the baker jumps, startled. He strides toward the door and Mrs. Lovett stands aside with wide eyes, but his arms brushes against her as he leaves. He almost shudders, biting down on the urge to turn around.

"Mr. T," she calls after him, sounding exasperated. "Where're you goin'?"

"Out," he rumbles, thundering down the stairs.

And with sudden clarity, he knows exactly where he's headed.

XxX

Two hours later, Sweeney sits slumped at the bar in a brothel, defeat prominent in his every movement. He'd tried and failed, but at least he has his answer. The only problem is that he doesn't like the answer he has received.

He takes another gulp of whiskey – not his drink of choice, but gin reminds him too much of Mrs. Lovett. That damned baker. This whole thing is entirely her fault. If only she would just stop tempting him with those doe eyes, stop burning his skin with a mere touch, stop catching his eye with wild red curls, stop having such faith in this new man he has become. It would be so easy to turn her away, if only she wasn't who she was.

And it seems that he wants her for exactly that.

Sweeney had come here to prove that he didn't need Mrs. Lovett's affections, that he was so starved for physical contact that any warm female body would do – that love didn't factor into his feelings at all.

The minute he'd walked through the door, a garish brunette had taken him by the arm with a simpering smile and led him upstairs. He'd tried, he really had. But this woman's painted mouth was too harsh, her perfume was sickly sweet and cloying – he missed a soft, open mouth and the scent of lavender and baking flour. Her dress was too stiff and frilly, her hair wasn't the right shade, her voice was too high-pitched, her hands too grasping and somehow not enough. He had been unable to think of anything but how wrong she felt in his arms. She didn't fit, the way someone else did so perfectly.

And in the middle of it all, Sweeney could feel dark eyes burning into his back, the disapproval so strong he could almost taste it in this other woman's kiss. Those damned eyes of hers, following him wherever he goes, even when his own eyes are tightly shut. Like she has any say in what he does. If he should be thinking about anyone's eyes, it should be Lucy's. His wife would be devastated if she knew he had come here.

But it isn't Lucy he had been worried about disappointing.

Everything was wrong and Sweeney could concentrate on nothing but how guilty he felt about a woman who has no claim on him.

So Sweeney had pushed the stranger away and fled downstairs to the bar, where he sits now, utterly lost but knowing in his heart what – or rather who – he truly wants.

XxX

Today is just not Eleanor Lovett's day.

First that whole business with Johanna and bloody Shakespeare, then Mr. Todd storming out of his shop earlier with that look on his face. It seemed obvious to her that he was off to brood somewhere about Lord knows what.

When Eleanor walks into the kitchen to start dinner and finds Lucy sitting at the counter, chin in hand and staring at nothing, she sighs gustily. Even in her own domain, she can find no peace.

Her fate today seems to be watching more of the tragic saga that is the Barker family unfold before her eyes – like a bad play that she's too polite to get up and leave in the middle of. She hasn't spoken to Lucy in a week and has barely even seen her, and right now, Eleanor isn't feeling sympathetic enough to deal with her nicely.

Without acknowledging Lucy's presence at all, she goes about all the necessary preparations for dinner. Humming to herself, she pulls out pots and pans, finds her favorite knife for chopping onions and starts a hunt for the onions themselves.

Throughout her impromptu scavenger hunt, Lucy does not turn from staring morosely at the counter. She doesn't even flinch when Eleanor drops a potato on her foot and swears rather colorfully.

The baker is just beginning to hope that Lucy will leave her be when the blonde suddenly turns in her seat and clears her throat softly – Lucy-speak for 'pay attention to me'. With her back turned, Eleanor rolls her eyes and makes a face.

Today is definitely not her day.

Resigning herself and her immediate future to listening to Lucy Barker, Eleanor decides to at least make it as difficult as possible for her. So instead of turning around and paying rapt attention just because the nit cleared her throat, Eleanor checks one last cabinet for the onions and murmurs a pleased, "Ah, there you are."

Lucy takes Eleanor's avoidance in stride, tucking a piece of blonde hair back into place and saying, "Would you like some help with dinner?"

Uh oh. Lucy is stalling – it doesn't bode well for the coming conversation.

Shaking her head, Eleanor says, "Speakin' to me now, are you?" Lucy shifts in her seat, obviously not willing to respond to Eleanor's sniping. "Well I don't need your 'elp, dearie. Been doin' just fine on my own all these years, and I'd rather not 'ave to put out another fire."

Lucy flushes, tightening her jaw against a response.

Beginning to slice an onion, Eleanor says, "Any idea if Johanna and your 'usband are goin' to be 'ome for dinner, or is it just the two of us and Toby?"

Looking away and fiddling with an oversized spoon on the counter, Lucy says stiffly, "Johanna and Benjamin haven't been speaking to me of late, if you hadn't noticed."

Eleanor snorts and scoops the onions into a pot. "Looks to me like you ain't be doin' much speakin' either, love."

"I don't know what to say anymore," Lucy says. "You're very good, you know."

Pausing in the middle of stirring the pot of stew, Eleanor says without turning around, "Excuse me?"

"I know what you're doing, Eleanor." Lucy sounds perfectly calm, but the ice in her voice puts Eleanor on her guard.

Swiveling on the spot to face Lucy, Eleanor says, "I don't know what you're talkin' about, love, but it's obvious you're tryin' to say _something_, so why don't you just come out and say it, mm?"

Lucy stares, like she cannot believe Eleanor's ignorance. "You poison their minds against me – it's very subtle but you're practically an expert. You've been doing it ever since Johanna was a child. You've made her hate me and now you're doing the same thing with Benjamin."

For a moment, Eleanor can do nothing but gape at her, eyes wide and mouth open in silent protest. "Why you little soddin' wench, 'ow dare you pin your problems on me!"

Lucy is on her feet in a flash, looking prim and put together despite the anger in her eyes. Eleanor can't help but wonder what it must be like to look and act like a lady every second of the day. She can't help but think it must be exhausting. "Don't you dare try to deny it. I _know_ you, Eleanor. I know exactly what you're capable of. Just because I don't confront you about it doesn't mean I don't notice."

Cold rage fills Eleanor to her very core and she wants nothing more than to slap Lucy Barker until her hands are red and stinging. Instead, she curls her hands into fists at her sides and takes a deep breath.

"You think I've been tryin' to get Johanna to hate you?" She shakes her head, feeling pity for Lucy in that moment. "You're 'er mother, she's never goin' to hate you. But she knows you've never been there for 'er, and believe me, dearie, I didn't need to say a word against you. Who made sure she 'ad somethin' to eat every day? Who read to 'er every night and dried 'er eyes when she fell in the park and scraped 'er knee, mm? I certainly don't recall you bein' there." She pauses, tapping her fingers against her mouth. "Where were you? Broodin' over pictures of a man who might as well be dead while your daughter grows up without both 'er parents. _Oh_, you were there to tell 'er she wasn't good enough, scoldin' 'er about keepin 'er dresses clean and sittin' up straight. You've never been a mother to that girl, Lucy Barker, but I'll be damned if I ever told 'er so. She's a smart girl, love, she figured it out all on 'er own."

Lucy holds herself very still, her eyes full of tears. "Johanna knows I would do anything for her."

Eleanor shrugs. "It takes more than that to be a mother and you're all talk, Lucy Barker. Always 'ave been." Turning back to her stew, Eleanor begins to stir once more, adding a dash of pepper. "As for your 'usband - "

Lucy stiffens, regaining a little bit of the fire she had lost only a minute ago. "I know you're in love with him, Eleanor. I would have to be blind not to see it. So don't stand there and tell me you don't want him for yourself and that you won't do anything to make it happen."

Slamming her spoon down on the counter, Eleanor whirls around to face Lucy. She can't even imagine what she must look like, but Lucy takes a step back, her eyes wide. "Alright," she says, her voice deadly quiet and shaking just a little. "I've been in love with 'im since I first laid eyes on 'im, is that what you want to hear? I loved 'im then and I love 'im now – far more than your shriveled up li'ttle 'eart will ever understand. All better?"

Lucy swallows heavily, her eyes huge and tear-filled in her pale face. "Stay away from Benjamin or I'll - "

"For _God's_ sake, that's not 'is bloody _name_ anymore!" Eleanor shouts, and Lucy jumps, startled. "Start callin' 'im what 'e wants to be called and maybe 'e'd want to be in the same room with you!"

"Yes, you're so good at sympathizing with him, aren't you, Eleanor?" Lucy asks. "Perhaps if you weren't so busy trying to win over my family, you would have one of your own by now."

For a moment, there is nothing but shocked silence. In her mind, Eleanor can see nothing but losing Albert, putting her own life aside to practically raise Johanna while Lucy fell apart and distanced herself from the world. Everything she has ever done has been for the Barkers.

And then Eleanor begins to laugh, a high, humorless chuckle that makes Lucy take another step back. "You know what's funny?" She asks, still giggling. "I've been stayin' out of the way and tryin' not to let my feelings interfere with you and your 'usband, but if this is the thanks I get, maybe I'll just stop tryin' so 'ard, eh?" She stops laughing but she can't keep the grin off her face. She feels a little hysterical, and just a bit dangerous. "Mr. Todd will certainly prefer the company of someone who understands 'im than a silly nit what's afraid to even give 'im a kiss!"

As the full gravity of what she has just said hits Lucy, the blonde pales and begins to shake her head but it's too late for her pathetic attempt at apologies.

Eleanor laughs softly to herself, her eyes full of cold mirth. "Oh love, you think you know what I'm capable of? Let me tell you somethin' Mrs. Barker. You 'ave _no idea_." She smiles. "But you're goin' to find out."

Leaving dinner cooking and not giving a damn if it burns, Eleanor strides past a white-faced Lucy Barker and out of the kitchen with new resolve.

XxX

The day isn't exactly sunny, but the air is warm and as a gentle wind lifts her hair from her shoulders and ruffles the hem of her skirts, Johanna decides the afternoon couldn't be any more beautiful. Glancing over her right shoulder, she can't help but smile to find Anthony already looking back at her, grinning.

For some reason, Johanna finds it difficult not to smile when Anthony is around. She has never been much of a child, even when she was one, but he makes her feel full of childish glee for even the mundane. Anthony makes her look up at the stars with wonder, he makes a daisy more beautiful than the reddest of roses, he makes her feel like the whole world is just waiting for her to take its hand and lead her onto adventures unknown.

Today has been an adventure in itself. Anthony had taken her for a stroll through the park and they'd chased pigeons with a group of children, laughing until they could hardly breathe. They'd had an impromptu lunch with a family Anthony had befriended merely because he saw their picnic basket. They'd been a lovely group and all too willing to share their sandwiches and dessert cakes. And then, when they'd said goodbye to the little family, Anthony and Johanna had climbed a tree. When they'd gone as high as Johanna was able with her skirts getting in the way, Johanna had turned and looked out over the land with her heart in the throat.

Johanna hadn't climbed a tree since she was a child, but it had made her feel just as free as she remembered. The whole of the park was laid out before her, like a life-sized map of her very own kingdom. Johanna had gazed upon her realm with a delighted smile that only widened when Anthony reached across their shared branch and took her hand in his.

Locking eyes with her, Anthony had slowly lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her open palm. Johanna had blushed but her smile never wavered.

It has been the best day of her life, and strolling home arm in arm with Anthony, clutching a leaf from the beloved tree in one hand, Johanna knows that it is the beginning of many best days.

"Well what did you think of today?" Anthony asks, nudging her playfully. "Have I impressed you yet, Johanna?"

Brushing her hair over her shoulder, Johanna fights to keep her grin from taking over her face completely. "It was quite lovely, Mr. Hope."

Anthony nearly guffaws. "Quite lovely? _Mr. Hope_?" He leans in close, his eyes dancing merrily. "Is that all I'm going to get from you? Must you be so hard on me?"

Johanna laughs, forgetting herself in that adoring gaze. "It was magical, Anthony." She squeezes his arm. "Thank you."

Anthony looks pleased and they continue to gaze at each other, unmindful of the people walking around them. It takes Johanna a moment to hear the ruckus going on nearby, so caught up is she in the butterflies in her stomach, but when she turns to look, her eyes widen.

Three police officers, clubs in hand, are striding purposefully toward them pushing people out of the way in their haste. Behind them, almost lost in the crowd, Judge Turpin watches with a grinning Beadle Bamford at his side.

Just like that, the butterflies are gone and the only feeling in Johanna's stomach is cold dread. "No," she breathes, clutching at Anthony's arm.

Anthony turns to look at her, confused. "Johanna, what -"

"I'm sorry, Anthony," she says hurriedly. "But I'll fix this. I promise I will. I - "

"Anthony Hope?"

Offering the policeman a polite smile, Anthony nods his assent. "Is there a problem, officer?"

"You're under arrest - "

Johanna shrieks as an officer pulls her from Anthony's arm and restrains her as they begin to drag Anthony away. "What for? What has he done?"

"That's confidential for the time being, Miss," says the officer holding her struggling form.

She kicks at his shins as tears fill her eyes. "Let me go! You have no right!"

The officer winces but his grip on her doesn't lessen in the slightest.

Johanna has never felt so helpless and weak in her whole life. "You can't do this! Let him go, please!"

Anthony looks shocked but he doesn't resist as the other two officers tug him forcefully down the street. "It's alright, Johanna," he calls. "I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding. Don't cry, darling. It's going to be fine, you'll see!"

Johanna stares after him with tear-filled eyes, the horror of what has just happened settling over her. Anthony, her sweet and lovely Anthony, has been taken from her on no doubt false charges. Darling Anthony, who would never harm a soul, or utter an unkind word about anyone, who has done nothing wrong but court the girl a powerful Judge wants for himself. She knows what will happen now. It has already happened once before, fifteen years ago.

And then the words Auntie Nell spoke only a week ago come back to her as though the woman is standing right behind her, whispering in her ear.

"_I'm sorry, but it's 'im or Anthony."_

If she doesn't do something, she will never see her Anthony again. It isn't even a choice anymore. To Johanna, there is only one option left. She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand, mouth settling into a grim line.

Johanna walks away with all the grace and purpose her mother taught her, head held high and back straight. When she turns the corner and is out of sight, she takes her skirts in hand and begins to run. She doesn't stop until she reaches the pie shop.

XxX

To escape Lucy, Eleanor had gone to her bedroom until she heard the telltale sounds of the blonde leaving the pie shop in an emotional huff. Then, she'd gone back to the kitchen to find Toby stirring dinner.

"Oh, I'm sorry, love," she says, going to him and kissing the top of his head affectionately. "Didn't mean to leave you with this."

Toby shrugs. "I came in and Mrs. Barker was leavin' but I smelled dinner burnin'. I just figured you was busy."

Eleanor nods, grateful Toby hadn't been home during her row with Lucy. "Thank you, darlin'. I'll take over from here."

Toby offers her the spoon and Eleanor begins poking at the potatoes in the stew while he retrieves two bowls. "Is it just us, ma'am?"

Sighing, Eleanor says, "Just us, love."

When Toby has had enough to eat and runs outside to play with his friends again, Eleanor sits in the parlor with a bottle of gin and plans to get very drunk. Unfortunately, she only gets halfway through one glass before she hears the door to the pie shop open and shut. She sighs and closes her eyes, praying to whoever will listen that it isn't Lucy. She doesn't have the strength for another round with her.

Instead, she hears the sound of heavy boots headed in her direction and she smiles to herself, downing the rest of her drink. When Mr. Todd appears in the doorway, looking a little paler than usual and rather nauseous, Eleanor arches an eyebrow. "You look like somethin' the cat dragged in, Mr. Todd."

He says nothing, staring at her instead. When she pushes the bottle of gin in his direction, he shakes his head. Eleanor begins to feel a little sick herself – he never refuses gin. What has gotten into him?

She pats the seat beside her on the settee. "Well, a've a seat then, love. You look a fright." When Mr. Todd doesn't move, Eleanor sighs. "Somethin' you want to say, Mr. T?"

Mr. Todd meets her eyes with his own troubled ones. "I don't - " He stops, swallowing.

Eleanor watches him pityingly. "You know, love," she begins softly. "You can tell me if somethin's botherin' you. We used to talk all the time, you and me, remember?"

Mr. Todd nods warily, eyeing her.

For a long moment, Eleanor doesn't speak, glancing down at her own lap and tracing random patterns on the settee cushion with her index finger. Before her confrontation with Lucy today and the accusations that the woman had hurled at her, Eleanor would never think of speaking the words she so badly wants to say now. However, Lucy has ruined whatever respect Eleanor still had for her.

"_Perhaps if you weren't so busy trying to win over my family, you would have one of your own by now." _

Lucy had overestimated her. The only thing Eleanor has tried to do is take care of the Barkers and ensure their happiness. Winning them over hadn't been in the plans. Now, however, things are different. The only thing holding her back is her own lack of courage. Eleanor swallows hard and wipes sweating palms on the skirts of her dress. She can't look at him – feeling those dark eyes on her is almost enough to make the words stutter in her throat. Looking at him would make speech impossible.

"You know 'ow you waited fifteen years to see your Lucy again?" She finally asks, her voice quiet. "The longin'? The pain? Tryin' every day to remember what 'er smile looked like? Clingin' to the good times and tryin' to forget the bad? Well, I went through that too, Mr. T." She raises her eyes slowly to meet his again, combating his frown with a soft smile. "I spent fifteen years waitin' for you to come home."

Mr. Todd stares at her like she's just told him the answer to all his life's problems, but he still doesn't speak. Eleanor begins to feel self-conscious, almost ready to apologize for her forwardness and try a different tack when it suddenly hits her. She sniffs the air, brow furrowed.

"What on earth…" The air smells of ale and cheap perfume. She wrinkles her nose. "Good lord, Mr. T. Is that you? Smells like you spent the day in a brothel!"

"I did," Mr. Todd says woodenly.

Eleanor almost chokes. "You did _what_?"

Before she can even begin a long tirade and tell Mr. Todd exactly what she thinks of where he's been, the man is halfway across the room. In the blink of an eye, he yanks her from the settee and into his arms, his dark eyes intent and the color returned to his cheeks.

Feeling lightheaded, Eleanor stares up into his face and stutters out, "M-Mr. Todd?"

"Shut up," he growls, and before she can protest, his mouth covers hers.

Eyes fluttering closed, Eleanor melts into his embrace, sighing a little as she grips his shirt in her hands. Mr. Todd wraps a strong arm around her waist, pulling her close against him. Whimpering a little, Eleanor wonders what has gotten into him but she isn't about to question it. She has spent too long lying awake at night wondering if he would ever touch her again to waste time thinking about anything but kissing him now.

She opens her mouth against Mr. Todd's, not caring in the slightest that he tastes like whiskey, and very slowly, she releases her grip on his shirt to slide her hand up his chest. Her fingers skate up his neck – she feels his pulse jumping in his throat – and cup his jaw in her hand. The feel of stubble beneath her fingers makes her smile against his mouth, and Mr. Todd nips at her bottom lip for her trouble.

Just as her other hand is tangling in his wild hair, gripping a little too tightly, the sound of the pie shop door slamming open and shut sends them staggering apart, breathing heavily. Stumbling away from him, mouth still tingling and her heart pounding, Eleanor drops back onto the settee before her knees give out.

"Auntie Nell!"

It's Johanna, sounding frantic.

Mr. Todd moves to the fireplace and leans over it, his face flushed and his hair tousled from Eleanor's fingers. Despite herself, Eleanor smiles at the picture he makes.

"Auntie Nell!"

Clearing her throat, Eleanor manages to call out hoarsely, "In 'ere, love!"

From the sound of her footsteps, Johanna is running.

* * *

**A/N** – So. Hello. –waves – I hope you all haven't forgotten about me. Haha I wrote this chapter a few months ago during summer break but my beta Robynne has a life and then subsequently forgot my chapter was in her inbox until I nagged her about my mysteriously missing, shiny and edited word document. So she wants me to convey her sincere apologies. And I have no idea when I will get a new chapter up. I start classes again next week and while I do want to finish this fic, I don't have a definite timeline at the moment. Thank you all so much for your patience and for the lovely reviews – I appreciate you guys and your feedback so much!


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